Page 48 of Filthy Promises

“I didn’t think so.” I pull the undershirt over my head in one fluid motion.

Her sharp intake of breath is audible in the silence. I don’t miss how her gaze traces the lines of my torso, the scars from fights she probably can’t begin to imagine, the tattoo across my left pectoral—Cyrillic letters spelling out “strength without mercy.”

“The tuxedo,” I prompt, nodding toward the garment bag.

She doesn’t move immediately. Just stares, caught between professionalism and something much more barbaric.

“Now, Ms. St. Clair.”

That gets her moving. She retrieves the garment bag, unzips it with trembling fingers, and removes the custom Tom Ford tuxedo inside.

“Hang it up properly,” I instruct. “The shirt and tie as well.”

While she busies herself with the tuxedo, I kick off my shoes and reach for my belt buckle. Then I pause, an idea forming.

“Rowan.”

She turns at the use of her first name, the shirt and bow tie draped over her arm. Her breath catches when she sees me standing there, shirtless, fingers on my belt.

“Come here.”

She approaches like someone walking to the gallows—reluctant but resigned. When she stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body, I drop my hands to my sides.

“Take off my belt.”

The command hangs in the air between us. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating until there’s just a thin ring of green around the black. I watch the internal struggle play across her face—the professional assistant warring with the woman who admitted she wants me.

“That’s an order, Ms. St. Clair.”

15

ROWAN

“Take off my belt.”

I swallow hard, staring at the Italian leather belt circling his waist. Its presence feels obscene somehow, the final barrier between professional assistance and something much more dangerous.

“Mr. Akopov, I don’t think?—”

“I’m not paying you to think, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice drops to that low, dangerous register that makes my insides quiver. “I’m paying you to assist me.”

My mind screams at me to turn around, walk out, and never look back. To preserve what little dignity I have left. I need to remember that this man might be an actual criminal who keeps a gun in his desk drawer.

But my traitorous hands are already reaching for his belt buckle.

“Just this once,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Just for the gala.”

His lips morph into that infuriating half-smile. “Of course.”

The metal is cool against my fingertips as I fumble with the clasp. I’m hyperaware of my breathing, of the minimal space between us, of the heat radiating from his bare chest.

This close, I can see the details of the tattoo on his chest. Cyrillic letters I can’t read, spreading across his left pectoral like a declaration. Below it, a thin white scar runs along his rib. I wonder what—or who—gave it to him.

The buckle finally releases with a softclick. I slide the leather slowly through the loops, careful not to brush against him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends an unwanted thrill through me.

I refuse to look up, to let him see what those words do to me. Instead, I cross to the coat rack and hang the belt carefully beside the tuxedo jacket.

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