Page 13 of Crimson Sin
I lift a brow, amused. “Define intimacy.”
“Don't play games.”
“I need to know your boundaries if I'm to respect them.”
She flushes, color rising from her neck to her cheeks. “No kissing. No...touching. This is business.”
“Until it's not,” I mumble.
Her eyes widen with a hint of panic.
“I'm kidding,” I lie.
She shakes her head but doesn't move. Doesn't get up and run. The fact that she's still here, still engaging, tells me she's already halfway to yes, even if she doesn't realize it yet.
I stand, and she rises too, still watching me, unsure. The afternoon light glows through her hair, turning the auburn strands to copper.
“I'll send you the paperwork,” I declare. “Take your time. Think carefully. But know this, Naomi, what I'm offering isn't just a transaction. It's a door. One you've always wanted to walk through. And once you do, you won't want to turn back.”
I step close enough to catch the delicate scent of her perfume, feel the warmth of her skin, and see the amber flecks glinting in her brown eyes.
She doesn’t move.
My hand lifts, unhurried, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. I lean in slowly, letting my lips hover near hers, lingering at a breath’s distance to tempt and tease, before I shift at the last second and press a kiss to her cheek instead. It isn’t forceful or demanding. Just a kiss. Warm and intentional. The kind that changes the air between two people.
When I step back, her eyes are wide, her lips parted, and her breath caught in the space between reaction and realization. Ileave her standing in the atrium, her pulse thrumming like the rhythm of my favorite song.
5
NAOMI
The car slows as we turn past a wrought-iron gate, flanked by lion statues that look like they belong in a Russian folktale, their stone eyes fixed on the long drive ahead. Trees line the path like sentries, tall and shadowed even in daylight, their leaves whispering secrets in the breeze. When the mansion comes into view, I grip the armrest beside me.
It's not just big. It's monumental. The Zorin estate rises like a baroque dream, complete with arched windows, ornate balconies, and a double staircase that spills across the front like a silk train. The limestone façade glows gold in the sunlight, regal and untouched, as though the world outside dared not lay a finger on it.
This place doesn't just announce money. It screams legacy and power. I've seen wealthy homes before, toured them as part of my art history coursework, admired their architecture in textbooks, and dreamed of curating exhibits in their private galleries. But this is different. This isn't just wealth accumulated over the course of decades. This is wealth inherited, defended, and wielded like a weapon.
“Impressive,” I murmur, my voice a whisper over the soft purr of the engine.
“It's been in the family for three generations,” Daniil replies casually as though we're discussing the weather rather than a palace that could house half my hometown.
The driver, a silent man with shoulders like a linebacker and eyes that never stop scanning, pulls up to the main entrance. He's out of the car before the engine fully stops, opening my door with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times. I accept his hand, stepping onto the cobblestones that appear to be hand-laid.
Inside, the air is cool and perfumed with a scent I can't quite place. Maybe honeysuckle and polished mahogany. The marble floor is so polished that it reflects light like water. My heels tap softly, echoing in the cavernous foyer. Every step is an announcement. And every man we pass dips his head and murmurs the same greeting that hasn't stopped startling me since we arrived.
“Mrs. Zorin.”
Each time I hear it, my insides jolt. I want to correct them, to laugh it off, and explain this is all pretend. But the words never leave my lips. I continue walking, my hand tucked into the crook of Daniil's arm, trying to look like I belong here.
The dress helps. A sleek alabaster white sheath with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a gold belt that cinches at the waist. Daniil had it delivered to my apartment the night before, along with a pair of nude stilettos and a velvet box containing diamond studs so delicate they feel like starlight. The tag had still been on the dress, the price too obscene to speak out loud.
You'll look like someone who belongs in my world, the note had declared. But that's the problem. I don't belong.
Charlotte had been there when the package arrived, her eyes widening as she held up the dress against the light.“This is custom tailored,”she'd whispered, running her fingers over the fabric.“Look at the stitching. The way it falls. This isn't off-the-rack, Naomi. This is couture.”
“It's just a dress,”I'd protested, but even as I spoke the words, I knew they were a lie. Nothing about this arrangement was “just” anything.
“Just a dress doesn't cost what this cost,”Charlotte had countered, checking the label again.“This is a statement. He's marking his territory.”
