Page 128 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

She jolts and then flings her arms over her notebook. “Nothing!”

“Very inconspicuous.”

She narrows her eyes at me and tries to casually close the cover. “You just surprised me.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take a look.” I snatch the notebook out of her hand and hold it above my head.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Technically, this is my suite. And my hotel. I’d say everything here is mine.”

“Just because something is under your roof doesn’t mean you own it,” she hisses. “You don’t own me!”

Our eyes meet, and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am: how good it could be, for both of us, if she was mine.

My cock stands to attention at the thought, at the memory of her riding me last night. The way I fucked her on the rug in the firelight. I have half a mind to toss her notebook aside and spread her out on the table.

But then Belle looks away, her cheeks flushed. And my blood starts pumping upward again, helping me think with my upstairs brain.

“I own anything I want,” I repeat with finality.

I flick the notebook open. I expect to find a half-finished sketch, but it’s immediately obvious Belle has been working on this drawing for a while.

It’s a house. A fantastical one. A small bungalow-style home with a covered porch and dormer windows that branches out into a gothic cathedral with a medieval-style turret. There’s a stone spire covered in vines and delicate flowers. It could easily be silly or cartoonish, but Belle has drawn it all with serious, loving detail.

“Where’d you learn how to do this?” I ask.

“I didn’t. I taught myself. Can I have it back now?”

I shake my head and turn away from her. “You taught yourself how to do this?”

“It’s just a drawing.”

“But you came up with all of this,” I say. “You dreamt it up and made it real on paper. That’s a talent. A gift.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Because you’re an accountant,” I snort.

Belle looks rightfully offended, but I don’t apologize. She crosses her arms. “I wasn’t always.”

She shrugs and lifts her chin, making it clear she won’t say anymore. But I want to know more. About Belle, about her life.

“I’ll give your book back if you tell me the story.”

Her jaw clenches. “Really?”

I nod. “Really.”

She sighs, and I can tell it’s taking a lot to drag this tidbit out of her. “I initially went to college to be an architect. I’ve always loved houses and design—”

“The dollhouse,” I infer. “The one your father promised you.” The pieces are starting to click.

She gives me a sad smile. “Yeah, the dollhouse. So I wanted to study to be able to give people that feeling. To make them feel safe and protected and loved. To make them feel comfortable. But… it didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t have the money,” she says. “I had a scholarship offer waiting for me if I went for an accounting degree. But the one for architecture… well, there was a panel of professors who decided which new applicants would receive the money. And I didn’t get in.”

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