Page 29 of Santa Daddy
Instead, my body did that annoying thing again where it misinterpreted possessiveness as foreplay. Heat rushed low andfast, traitorous and hot, and my palms itched with the urge to curl into his shirt.
What is happening to me.
When did I start craving his claim almost as much as I craved my freedom?
His hand came up. Fingers brushing a stray curl back behind my ear, the same way he had that morning. Only now there was lipstick and highlight and a stranger in my skin.
“Where are we going?” I asked, proud that my voice sounded steadier than my pulse felt.
“Dinner.” His gaze didn’t leave my face. “Work. Both.”
“Do I need to know who’s on the menu?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You are here to be seen. Heard if I say so. That is all.”
“I love a man with clear expectations.”
“You will love me in many ways before this is over, kotyonok,” he said, almost absently, like stating the weather. “Tonight we start with looking like you belong.”
His eyes dragged over me again, slower this time. Approval and ownership in equal measure.
“You do.”
The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. It landed anyway.
Behind him, the elevator dinged softly. The sound was civilized, the way everything here was—quiet, understated, full of teeth if you knew where to look.
6
WOLVES IN VELVET
KONSTANTIN
The restaurant looked exactly like I’d expected—money and menace wrapped in velvet.
Low ceilings. Dark booths. Crimson lamps bleeding over tables. A string of white Christmas lights sagged along the bar, doing fuck-all to soften the edges. Wreaths on the walls, holly tucked into crystal vases, but the only thing that really glowed in here was power.
Perfect stage.
She needed to see this. Needed to understand the world she’d walked into when she followed the wrong shortcut through a tree lot.
I kept my hand on the small of her back as we crossed the polished floor, feeling the tension pouring off her. The black silk dress I’d chosen clung to every new curve the stylists had sculpted, turning her from mall elf hostage into a weapon I could aim.
She had no idea how dangerous she looked.
No idea how every man in this room was already cataloguing her as mine or a potential vulnerability, depending on how suicidal they felt tonight.
The hostess saw me and went still. To her credit, she didn’t stammer.
“Mr. Zverev.” She grabbed two menus, abandoned the usual script. “Your table is ready.”
Smart girl.
She led us toward the back. Eyes tracked us through the half-dark—measured, weighed. Some full of hunger. Some suspicious. Some calculating risk. None of them brave enough to meet my gaze for long.
Let them look.
Let them see exactly what happens when something belongs to me.
