“Fool,” I whisper to the steam clouds circling over my head.
Once the calming effect of the heat begins to fade, I step out of the shower and slip on the white robe. It’s made of luxuriously soft cotton, and I squeeze my arms tightly around myself.
But comfort never lasts. I crave it—chase it, even—but the gratification is short-lived.
Kind of like the debacle that occurred downstairs.
My resolve had crumbled within seconds. He pressed himself against me, and all I wanted was to feel him inside me again.
It’s just sex, I’d told him. But with Leo, it’s never just sex.
It’s like that old quote: everything in life is about sex. Except sex—that’s about power.
I move around the room, already restless. After months of being continuously active, continuously in motion, being trapped in a room with no escape is suffocating. Correction: being trapped in this life is suffocating.
It’s the reason I won’t have another baby. I can’t. No matter what Leo says about making another one.
If I do, that child will be lost to me just as much as the one I miscarried. I’d lose that child to this life, to him. To his legacy, his thirst for power and glory.
Anya may be a tough bitch, but at least she gave me the option of which path to walk.
The doorknob turns. I spin around just as Leo steps into the room. He’s showered, too. His hair is still wet, and he’s wearing different clothes than before. Dark slacks and a light white sweater that hugs every muscle on his body.
I hate that I notice. But more than that, I hate that he looks so good. Who did he have to look good for once I was gone? I wonder if that has something to do with the blonde bitch that still haunts my nightmares from time to time. Brit. The name sits on my tongue like poison.
Leo walks into the room without a word. And that’s when I realize he’s not alone.
Two of his men walk in behind him with large black bags. They place them at the foot of my bed and leave as silently as they came, closing the door behind them on their way out.
Then Leo and I are alone together. My body pings with the awareness of him, but I keep my expression neutral.
“What are those?”
“See for yourself,” Leo tells me.
I sigh. “What if I’m not interested?”
“Unless you’d like to spend the next few months walking around in that robe, I suggest you open the bags, Willow.”
I frown. “I’m not going to be here for months.”
“Of course not. I’m sure you already have an escape plan in place,” he says. “But if it’s all the same to you, that robe isn’t going to keep you warm up here.”
Sighing, I grab the first bag and empty its contents onto the bed. There are jeans, sweaters, blouses, and scarves in a rainbow of colors and styles. I’d never admit as much, but they’re all exactly my taste.
The second bag is lighter. When I dump it out, the frown freezes on my face. “Dresses?”
Formal dresses, at that.
Leo shrugs. “We’re having dinner tonight.”
“Is this your way of asking me out on a date?”
He smiles. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. It’s dinner. And a conversation.”
I tense immediately. “A conversation about what?”
“The last eleven months.”
Fuck. I’m under no illusions about what he wants. He wants my secrets. And if the last hour—not to mention the last two years—has taught me anything, it’s that Leo Solovev always gets what he wants.
Especially where I’m concerned.
But not this time. Not my secrets. Those I’m going to fight for.
“Something scaring you, Willow?”
“It’s Viktoria, remember?”
“That’s a name you have to earn.”
“It’s a name that was forced on me,” I remind him. “By you and all the men who want me to claim it so they can claim me.”
“They’re too late. I already claimed you,” he growls. “I married you before Spartak Belov ever even knew you existed.”
I give him a slow clap. “Congrats. You’re more of an asshole than he is.”
“Smarter, too.”
“Is that a fact?”
“I deal only in facts.”
“Then let me ask you something,” I say, stepping forward. “How long has she been working for you?”
I don’t like his smile. It’s all confident, all knowing. I’m convinced he can see straight through my skull and read my mind.