Chapter 25: Shopping Trip
The Monte Carlo street opened before them, a labyrinth of polished stone and designer boutiques. The scent of salt and jasmine from the nearby gardens mingled with the faint tang of gasoline from passing scooters. Violet let her fingers lace loosely with Sascha’s, her body swaying slightly as they navigated the uneven cobblestones, while Andrey walked on her other side, his shoulder brushing hers with every step.
His voice cut through the hum of the city, low and teasing.
“You’re *stunning*, Violet. Tell me—do you always make men follow you around like lost puppies, or is this a special occasion?”
Violet’s breath hitched. She wanted to be offended. She really did.
But the way his thumb traced idle circles on the inside of her wrist, the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his eyes, made her pulse jump instead.
“Andrey.” Sascha’s voice was a dark murmur, threaded with warning. “Behave.”
The Russian smirked, not moving his hand. “Or what, *Sascha*? You’ll punish me?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear.
“I’d like to see you try.”
Sascha exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around Violet’s just for a second before deliberately loosening. The late afternoon sun gilded the edges of his sharp cheekbones, making him look both dangerous and impossibly beautiful. He shot Andrey a look that could’ve flashed steel; not anger, not quite, but something older and sharper. “You’re playing with fire.”
Andrey only grinned wider, the movement pulling his shoulder tight against Violet’s.
The heat between them was immediate, electric, like a wire sparking between flesh and fabric. The Monte Carlo street stretched ahead—a winding ribbon of cobblestone and high-end storefronts, their glass windows reflecting the golden afternoon light back onto them.
Violet exhaled through her parted lips, her pulse fluttering wildly in time with Andrey’s thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on her wrist. His touch was possessive, unapologetic, and she found herself leaning into it without thought. Sascha’s hand in hers was different—firm, steady, grounding—like an anchor holding her steady in the storm of their combined energy.
The heat of his palm seeped into her skin, contrasting sharply with the cool breeze that whispered through the elegant shopping strip. The cobblestones beneath their feet, uneven and sun-warmed, guided them past storefronts filled with designer labels that meant nothing to her—names she recognized from tennis sponsorships, not fashion magazines. Yet the opulence of the setting only amplified the intensity of the moment.
Ahead, a boutique with floor-to-ceiling windows showcased sleek, minimalist clothing in muted tones. The kind of place where entrance likely required a membership, not a credit card.
“This one?” Violet asked, glancing up at Sascha through the golden haze of late afternoon light that haloed his dark hair.
“I mean… do you think they’ll let me in looking like this?” She tugged self-consciously at the oversized sweater Sascha had lent her—still damp with his scent, the sleeves swallowing her wrists.
Andrey slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, letting his blue eyes rove over her with deliberate slowness. The corners of his mouth twitched. “If not, I’ll buy them whole store and have them bring the shopping to our yacht.”
Sascha exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between amusement and exasperation. His thumb pressed a little firmer against the inside of her wrist where it rested in his palm.
“You really think you need their permission to step inside?” Sascha’s voice wrapped around her like smoke, rough with that dark accent she found impossible to resist. The golden hour light caught the sharp angles of his face, gilding the stubble along his jaw like a blade freshly honed. “They’d be **fools** not to let you in.”
Violet swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering beneath his touch.
The boutique’s glass reflected the three of them—Sascha towering beside her, all dark intensity and sharp angles; Andrey lounging on her other side, sunlight catching the gold flecks in his eyes as his smirk deepened; and herself, flushed and breathless, her fingers tangled in Sascha’s grip as if she were drowning there.
The mannequins inside the store stood posed in sleek dresses and tailored suits, their expressions frozen in perfect indifference. The boutique’s interior glowed with cool, modern lighting that made everything look like it belonged on a magazine cover—or a tennis court advertisement.
Andrey stepped ahead with lazy grace, pressing his palm against the glass door.
The movement sent a ripple of heat through Violet’s arm where her fingers were still tangled with Sascha’s. The boutique hummed with the low murmur of a sales associate on a call—and then, like a well-rehearsed cue, the door clicked open without a word, as if the man sensed the presence of someone who didn’t wait for invitations.
The interior smelled of cedar and vanilla—expensive and neutral, like a space designed to make any discomfort disappear. The lighting was soft but sharp, catching the sheen of silk blouses and the matte finish of leather handbags arranged on walnut shelves.
A woman in a tailored black dress approached, her welcoming smile professional but her eyes flicking with quiet recognition—not of Violet, but of Sascha, whose presence filled the room like a slow-moving tide.
"Mr. Zverev," she began, her voice practiced. "Will you be requiring your private fitting room today?"
Sascha dipped his chin in acknowledgment, his expression calm, but Violet caught the way his grip tightened just slightly around her fingers before he released her hand. "We're here for her," he said, gesturing toward Violet with a tilt of his head. "She's redecorating my wardrobe."
The saleswoman's gaze shifted to Violet, sizing her up with practiced ease.
The professional mask didn't quite conceal the flicker of surprise—clearly she hadn't expected Sascha to bring anyone, let alone a young woman in an oversized sweater that swallowed her frame completely. The way her eyes lingered on Violet's long brown hair, the soft curve of her smile despite the awkwardness, told Violet everything she needed to know about how this would go.
"Of course," the woman said smoothly, her accent polished and neutral. "We'd be delighted to assist. If you'd like to follow me..."
Violet hesitated for just a second, her fingers brushing against her thigh where Sascha's hand had just been.
The absence of his warmth left her skin feeling too cool, too exposed. She glanced at Sascha, then Andrey, searching for some silent reassurance, but they both simply watched her with expectant patience, their expressions unreadable.
The saleswoman—whose nametag read "Claire" in elegant cursive—led them past the sleek racks of clothing, her heels clicking against the polished walnut floors. The boutique held an air of quiet exclusivity, the kind of place where the price tags weren’t displayed and the fabrics whispered promises of luxury rather than shouted them.
Claire led them toward the back where a discreet door stood ajar, revealing a private fitting room bathed in soft, golden lighting. The space was intimate—mirrors lined the walls in strategic angles, ensuring no angle of a garment went unappreciated. A plush velvet chaise lounge sat in one corner, its rich burgundy fabric a stark contrast to the otherwise neutral tones of the room. The faint scent of bergamot and sandalwood lingered in the air, likely from a discreet diffuser hidden somewhere in the shadows.
Violet hesitated on the threshold, her fingers twitching at her sides.
The private fitting room felt like a stage—small, enclosed, the mirrors reflecting not just her reflection, but the faint outlines of Sascha and Andrey lingering just outside the doorframe, their broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway.
Claire gave her an encouraging nod. "If you'd like to try this on first," she said, gesturing to a sleek black dress hanging on the interior door. "It’s new this season—a piece we’ve only just received. Very exclusive."
Violet reached for the hanger, her fingers brushing the cool silk of the dress.
The fabric rippled slightly, shifting from charcoal to silver under the boutique’s soft lighting. She hesitated, eyes flickering between the dress and the three faces watching her—Sascha, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, the tailored linen of his shirt stretching across his chest; Andrey, standing just behind him, one shoulder propped against the frame with that infuriating smirk that made her skin heat; and Claire, the saleswoman, watching with the practiced patience of someone who’d seen far stranger requests than a woman in an oversized sweater suddenly being handed a designer gown.
She swallowed. "This seems...
a bit much," Violet said softly, her voice barely audible above the quiet hum of the boutique’s air conditioning. She clutched the hanger tighter, the silk of the dress whispering against her fingertips. The fabric felt like liquid darkness, expensive and intimidating—nothing like the cotton and linen she’d grown accustomed to folding into her suitcase. She glanced up through her lashes at Sascha, then at Andrey, searching for silent permission—or perhaps reassurance.
Claire's polished smile didn’t waver, though her eyes flickered with quiet amusement. “It’s quite versatile,” she said, her voice smooth as poured champagne. “Perfect for evening wear.
Or…” Claire’s gaze flickered toward Sascha and Andrey before resting back on Violet. “A private moment.”
Violet’s pulse jumped, her fingers tightening around the hanger. The dress felt like a boundary being stretched—something sleek and dangerous, slipping between her hesitance and the undeniable pull of their attention. She glanced at Sascha, whose dark eyes held hers with quiet intensity. His expression gave nothing away, but the way his gaze dropped briefly to the dress—and then back to her face—sent a shiver down her spine.
Andrey leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder casually propped against the polished wood, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.
"You’re hesitating," he said, his voice low and rough, the Russian accent wrapping around the words like a promise. "Do you think we brought you here to watch you stand in a dressing room all afternoon?"
The dress hung between them like a silent challenge, its dark fabric shimmering under the boutique’s soft lighting. Violet swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering in her throat. The private fitting room suddenly felt too small, too intimate—every breath she took echoed in the mirrored walls, every shift of fabric from the dress a whisper against her skin.
Sascha pushed off the doorframe with a slow, deliberate motion, his broad shoulders cutting through the space between them.
The golden light of the boutique caught the sharp angles of his face, illuminating the faint flush creeping up Violet’s neck. He stood so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, even through the thickness of the borrowed sweater. When his hand settled on her waist, the warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric, grounding her in the moment.
"If you don’t want to try it on, we can find something else," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her bones. His dark eyes searched hers, searching not for obedience, but for the truth she’d been too afraid to voice. The dress in her hands suddenly felt inconsequential—what mattered was the way his thumb traced slow circles on the small of her back, the way his presence seemed to fill the entire fitting room despite the space around them.
Violet exhaled, the knot in her throat loosening just enough to speak.
"I want to try it on," she whispered, hearing the tremor in her own voice. "I'm just—" She stopped, realizing she didn't have a good reason to hesitate beyond her own nerves.
Andrey pushed away from the doorframe, his movements deliberate and purposeful. "Good," he said, his voice rough with that familiar Russian cadence. His gaze flicked between her and Sascha, something almost possessive flashing in his blue eyes before he glanced at Claire, who stood patiently beside the chaise. "We’ll be right outside."
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the intimacy of the space became undeniable.
Violet's fingers trembled slightly as she slipped off Sascha's oversized sweater, letting it pool around her feet. The fitted black dress she'd been handed glided over her skin like liquid shadow—sleek, form-fitting, and completely different from anything she'd ever worn. It clung to her curves in all the right places, the delicate straps barely holding the expensive fabric in place.
She turned slowly, examining her reflection from every angle in the mirrors that surrounded her. The dress transformed her—not just physically, but in the way she carried herself.
The fitted black fabric clung to her curves like a second skin, accentuating the dip in her waist and the swell of her hips. It whispered against her skin with every movement, cool and expensive. For a second, she turned this way and that, admiring the way the fabric shimmered under the boutique’s golden light.
Violet would never have tried something like this before and it looked nice. However, she started to feel a little uncomfortable—it didn't feel like her. The dress was beautiful, but it was also too polished, too intentional. Too much like something a woman who belonged in this world would wear. Violet belonged in the stands watching tennis, not in a fancy Monte Carlo boutique.
She bit her lip, the silky fabric suddenly feeling too tight.
She tried to compose herself, to steady her breathing, but she knew the tears would come—they always did when the pressure overwhelmed her. The mirrors reflected her flushed face, her fingers curled into the dress like it might save her.
The shop lights dimmed slightly in her peripheral vision, as if the world itself was accommodating her sudden need to disappear.
Violet swallowed hard, her throat tight. She turned away from her reflection, pressing her palm against the cool glass of the mirror. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her just enough to keep the tears at bay.
Outside the fitting room, she could hear the low murmur of voices—Sascha and Andrey talking in hushed tones she couldn’t quite make out. The sound of their presence was enough to steady her. She took a deep, shaky breath, then another, the silk fabric whispering against her skin with each movement.
The dress was beautiful.
Too beautiful. The way it hugged her curves, the way it shimmered under the boutique’s golden light—it wasn’t just clothing. It was armor. The kind of armor women like Claire wore effortlessly. The kind of armor Violet had never owned.
She traced the neckline with her fingertip, feeling the delicate fabric between her fingers. The dress was perfect for someone else. Someone bold. Someone who belonged in places like this. Someone who didn’t overthink every damn thing, who didn’t hesitate for reasons she couldn’t even articulate.
The door handle rattled.
Violet froze, her breath catching as it clicked open.
The door inched inward, and Sascha’s voice filtered through the crack—low and assured.
“Let us in, Violet.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The mirrors around her reflected three figures now, not one; Sascha’s broad frame filling the doorway, Andrey leaning against the wall beside him, arms crossed, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable. Claire had gone back to the counter.
The door swung fully open to reveal Violet trembling in the black dress, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. The way the dress draped over her curves made something primal and protective rise in Sascha’s chest.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, stepping forward without hesitation. His voice was rough with awe and something darker—something that had nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the way her breath hitched when he approached.
Andrey didn’t move from his position against the wall, but his posture tightened—shoulders squared, jaw set. His eyes never left Violet. The intensity in his gaze made the air in the small room feel thick, charged like a live wire.
Violet bit her lip hard enough to feel the faint sting of teeth, her vision blurring at the edges as the tears pricked behind her eyelids. She could feel them coming—always so close lately, always waiting for the moment she let her guard down.
Sascha was at her side in an instant, his large hand cupping her elbow to steady her before she could crumple. "Violet," he growled, his voice rough with concern. His dark eyes searched hers desperately. "What’s wrong? Talk to us."
Andrey pushed off the wall in one fluid motion, crossing the room in three long strides. His blue eyes were sharp with alarm as he caught her other arm, his grip firm but gentle. "She’s pale," he muttered to Sascha, his accent thickening with tension. "Too warm.
Too much," Violet whispered around the knot in her throat. She gestured feebly at the dress, the sleeves suddenly feeling like iron shackles. The fabric might as well have been a corset for how it constricted her ribs, or her breathing, or her thoughts. "I... I can't..."
Sascha's fingers flexed on her elbow, his thumb brushing the sensitive underside where her pulse fluttered erratically. "Then we'll take it off," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her bones despite the shakiness in her own breath.
His dark eyes never left hers as his free hand lifted to the delicate strap of the dress, his fingers hesitating just above the silk.
Andrey's breath hit her ear, warm and controlled. "Breathe, *tsvetochek*," he murmured, his Russian endearment rolling off his tongue like honeyed smoke. His other hand settled on her waist, grounding her with its solid heat. "You're safe. We've got you."
The air between them was charged, thick with something neither of them named aloud.
The boutique’s soft lighting wrapped around them like a second skin, amplifying the heat of Sascha’s palm on her waist and Andrey’s breath against her ear. Violet’s breath hitched as she stared at him—real, tangible, here in the flesh. His sharp jaw was dusted with the faintest stubble, his blue eyes dark with intensity as they held hers.
The dress suddenly felt too heavy, too constrictive. She shifted slightly, the silk whispering against her skin, and the movement sent a shiver through her.
Sascha’s voice was rough when he spoke, his accent wrapping around the words like velvet. “We’ll take it off.”
Violet swallowed hard, her throat tight.
She wobbled on her feet—not from weakness, but from the sudden realisation that the dress was too much, that she was too much, that the carefully constructed walls around her emotions were crumbling under the weight of their presence. She took one step backward and her heel caught on the hem of the dress.
She tumbled backward, her arms windmilling—
—and collided directly into Sascha’s solid chest.
He caught her effortlessly, his arms banding around her waist as she gasped, her fingers clutching at the lapels of his shirt. The scent of cedar and warm citrus enveloped her, the familiarity of it nearly undoing her completely. His heart beat steadily beneath her palms, a steady rhythm that anchored her in the storm of sensations.
The silk of the dress whispered against his shirt as she clung to him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The fitted dress suddenly felt like a cage, its clinging fabric constricting her chest, her thoughts, the very air she needed to speak.
Sascha's grip tightened on her waist, his dark eyes burning with something far more dangerous than concern. The raw intensity in his gaze made her stomach flip. He didn't ask if she was okay—he knew. Instead, his free hand rose slowly, his fingertips brushing the damp hair at her temple where the stress had sent beads of sweat cascading down her face. His touch was feather-light, yet it seared through her like fire.
She buried her face against his chest, her fingers twisting in the fine cotton of his shirt as if she could anchor herself to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The silk of the dress whispered against her skin, clinging like a second skin—or a second cage. Sascha’s arms wrapped around her completely, one hand splaying across her back as the other cupped the back of her head, holding her close. His breath was warm against her hair, the faintest sigh escaping his lips as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice rough but gentle, the German lilt wrapping around the word like a promise. “Let it go.”
Andrey had already moved, his presence filling the small space with quiet urgency. He stepped forward, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, grounding her with his touch. “She’s overwrought,” he said, sharp and clinical, though his fingers trembled slightly against her skin.
“The dress is choking her.”
Sascha’s lips brushed her temple softly, the lightest part of a kiss, the barest whisper of contact that sent a current surging through Violet’s veins. His breath was warm against the delicate shell of her ear as he whispered, “We’re here. Let us take care of you.”
His touch was like silk against her fevered skin, both soothing and electric. Violet’s knees nearly buckled at the sensation, her fingers clutching tighter at the fabric of his shirt as she turned her face into the crook of his neck. The borrowed sweater had been discarded somewhere—she couldn’t remember where—but Sascha’s skin was warm and smooth beneath her lips as she pressed a trembling kiss to his collarbone.
Andrey didn’t speak, but his hand shifted from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles that anchored her in the storm of sensations.
Sascha’s fingers found the delicate zipper at the back of the dress, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of her spine as he drew it downward with agonizing slowness.
The sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet fitting room—a quiet *zzzzip* that echoed off the mirrored walls, the sound of a cage opening. Violet shivered as the fabric loosened around her, the tension in her chest easing fractionally as the clinging black silk parted. Sascha’s breath was warm against the back of her neck as he peeled the dress from her shoulders, his hands steady despite the way her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips.
The silk whispered as it slid down her arms, pooling at her feet in a dark pool. The sudden absence of its weight against her skin felt like shedding a second layer of skin itself—something raw and exposed now lay beneath.
Violet stood frozen, clad only in a delicate black lace bra and matching panties, the fabric sheer enough that the boutique’s golden light caught every curve. Her hands flew to her chest, fingers curling into fists as if she could somehow shield herself from their gazes—but it was too late. The damage was done. The mirrors reflected her blush, the way her breath hitched, the way her body betrayed her own self-consciousness while simultaneously craving their attention.
Violet’s fingers trembled as she pulled her hands away from her chest, pressing them instead against her waist—trying to anchor herself in the moment, trying to hide the rapid rise and fall of her ribs beneath the lace.
The silence between them was thick, heavy with something neither dared name.
Sascha didn’t look away. His dark eyes traced every inch of her exposed skin, lingering on the swell of her breasts above the lace, the dip of her waist, the way her hips flared beneath the delicate fabric of her panties. His gaze was possessive, unapologetic, the kind of look that made her skin burn where it landed.
But the intensity in his eyes softened when his fingers brushed her wrist, pulling her hand away from her chest—not to expose her, but to still her trembling.
Andrey pivoted on his heel, the discarded black dress draped delicately over one arm like a trophy. He didn’t glance back at them as he stepped into the corridor, the door of the private fitting room clicking softly behind him. The motion carried a quiet finality—something had shifted, and the air between them tightened into anticipation.
Sascha drew Violet fully against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other circled her waist, pulling her close. The heat of his body seeped through the thin lace of her bra, grounding her in the heat of the moment. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice rough but steady, the German accent wrapping around the words like a promise. “You’re safe.
I’ve got you.” His words were dark velvet against her ear, the tease of his accent wrapping around her like a spell. *She leans into his touch*—not just into his hand cradling the back of her neck, but into the solid wall of his chest where her forehead found temporary sanctuary. The lace of her bra pressed against his linen shirt, the fabric warm with his body heat, the faint citrus scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a second embrace. Sascha’s free hand settled on the small of her back, fingers splaying possessively over the lace, pulling her flush against him as if she were something precious that might still slip away. His breath hitched just slightly when her hips met his, the contact electric, a live wire suspended between need and restraint.
“We can go to another store,” he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue like a dark promise, “or we can go back to the house if it’s too much.”
The private space between them felt charged, claustrophobic, the mirrors reflecting not only their reflections but the weight of unspoken desire pressing against every inch of skin left bare. Violet’s chest still rose and fell in uneven bursts, her fingers curling reflexively into the fabric of his shirt as if she could pull him closer or push him away—she wasn’t sure which. The air smelled of bergamot and warm honey, of citrus and something deeper, more primal—maybe desire, maybe restraint, maybe both tangled together in the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Sascha’s grip on her waist tightened just a little, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on her lower back—just above where the lace of her panties met skin.
The heat of his palm seeped through the delicate fabric, grounding her even as his body loomed over hers, a solid, immovable force.
She whispers, *"I’m scared."*
The words tumbled from her lips on a shaky breath, barely audible even to herself. The confession hung between them, fragile and raw, as the mirrors around them caught the tremble of her shoulders, the way her fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt—half in fear, half in quiet plea. The air in the fitting room thickened, pressing against her skin like the weight of the unspoken tension between them. The scent of bergamot and warm citrus from his cologne wrapped around her, both soothing and intoxicating in its assurance.
Sascha didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into her, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm and unsteady against her skin.
“Why?” His voice was rough, the German lilt thick with concern. The faintest stubble along his jaw brushed her temple as he moved, the sensation grounding her in the moment. “You have nothing to fear from us.”
Andrey returned, his broad frame filling the doorway again, his blue eyes dark with intensity as they flicked between them. The quiet click of the door shutting behind him echoed like a second heartbeat in the small space. He didn’t speak, but the way his presence filled the room made Violet feel safer somehow—less like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice she couldn’t name.
Sascha’s thumb traced the line of her jaw, the touch feather-light but deliberate.
“Then what is it?”
Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not scared of *you*,” she said, her voice stronger now, laced with quiet resolve. “But this store—this place—doesn’t feel right.” She gestured vaguely at the mirrors and the discarded dresses, the boutique’s polished surfaces suddenly feeling like a gilded cage. “It’s all… too much. Too shiny. Too much pressure.”
Andrey leaned against the doorframe again, his arms crossed, but his eyes lost their usual sharpness, softening into something almost understanding. “She’s right,” he muttered to Sascha, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a sigh. “She’s not made for places like this.”
Sascha studied her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them like the silk of the dresses they’d left behind. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I understand."
Sascha released her gently, his hands sliding from her waist down her arms until their fingertips could still brush but no longer held. The absence of his touch was almost a physical ache, the warmth of his palms lingering on her skin like an afterglow. His dark eyes never left hers as he stepped back, giving her space—not retreat, but room to breathe.
Behind them, Andrey exhaled sharply through his nose, his arms uncrossing as he pushed off from the doorframe. The movement was quiet, deliberate, his attention flicking between Violet and Sascha with the keen focus of someone assessing terrain before a jump. "We could go to a market," he said after a moment, his voice rough but not unkind. "Less... polished. More real."
Sascha mirrored the gesture, stepping back fully, though his eyes never left Violet’s face. "Yes," he agreed softly, the single word heavy with meaning.
His gaze dropped briefly to her chest, still half-hidden by lace, before meeting her eyes once more. "Less polished.
The air shifted between them—thicker now, charged with something unspoken but understood by all three. Violet’s pulse steadied slightly at the distraction, her fingers finally loosening their death-grip on Sascha’s shirt even though her body still hummed from his touch.
She glanced down at herself—the discarded black dress pooling around her feet like spilled ink, the delicate lace of her bra and panties the only armor she had left. A flush crept up her neck again, but this time it wasn’t entirely from embarrassment. There was something in their expressions that made her feel...
*seen*. *Desired*. Like the way Sascha’s gaze lingers on her, his dark eyes tracing the dip of her collarbone, the curve of her hip beneath the lace. His fingers flex slightly at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach out again.
Andrey clears his throat. His voice is rough, almost to himself. “We should go before you freeze, *tsvetochek*.”
Violet swallows, her throat dry. “I’m not cold,” she whispers, but the words come out too soft, too breathy. The air between them isn’t cold—it’s burning.
Violet knows she needs to move, to breathe, to do something before the heat in her chest melts her from the inside out. She steps back, the lace of her bra whispering against her ribs as she reaches for the discarded sweater draped over the chaise.
Her fingers tremble as she pulls it on, the oversized wool swallowing her whole, grounding her back in the moment. The fabric smells faintly of Sascha—cedar and citrus—and she inhales deep, anchoring herself to his scent like a lifeline.
Andrey notices the shift immediately, his blue eyes sharpening as he watches her pull the sweater over her head, the sleeves swallowing her hands. "Better?" he asks, his voice low but not unkind, as if sensing the storm inside her has eased. He doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing off from the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the space as he gives her room to move.
When Violet hesitates, her fingers twisting the hem of the oversized sweater between them, he reaches out—not touching her, just offering his hand palm up between them like an unspoken truce. "Let’s go," Andrey says, that rough Russian accent wrapping around the words in a way that makes the command feel like an invitation.
The boutique’s air conditioning hums softly in the background as Violet slips her hand into his, her palm small against the rough calluses of his fingertips—calluses earned from years of gripping a tennis racket, not from holding a briefcase or a wine glass. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s holding something precious that might shatter if he squeezes too tight.
The contrast between his rough, athletic hand and her delicate fingers sends a jolt through her—something simple, something real. Something that doesn’t require a dress code.
Violet exhales slowly, the tension in her shoulders loosening just enough to take one step forward, then another. The borrowed sweater swallows her whole, the wool soft against her flushed cheeks, comforting in a way the sleek black dress never could be.
Claire watches them from across the boutique, her polished smile barely hiding the flicker of confusion. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t try to stop them. Maybe she senses something—something between the three of them that transcends the usual transaction of service and payment.
Maybe she sees the way Sascha’s gaze lingers on Violet’s flushed face as they turn away, the way Andrey’s fingers tighten possessively around hers before leading her out of the boutique. Maybe she just knows, in that instinctive way women like Claire often do, that some moments aren’t meant to be interrupted.
The Monte Carlo street greets them with golden light and the distant murmur of the Mediterranean beyond the elegant storefronts. The cobblestones shift beneath their feet as they step away from polished glass and into the warm afternoon.
The sun hangs low in the sky now, painting everything in amber and shadow—contrasting sharply with the cool interior they’ve just left behind. Violet’s breath still comes in quiet, uneven bursts, but the tightness in her chest has eased. The oversized sweater swallows her frame completely, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips, the hem grazing the tops of her thighs. It smells like him—like cedar and warm citrus—something steady she can cling to.
Andrey walks beside her, his stride easy, his free hand tucked casually into the pocket of his tailored shorts. His thumb brushes the back of her knuckles every few steps, a quiet reminder that he’s still there.
Violet swallows hard, her pulse fluttering in her throat. The sweater is warm, the sweater is heavy—but more importantly, the sweater is his. It’s Sascha’s. The fabric still carries the faintest trace of his cologne, that intoxicating mix of bergamot and something darker, something primal. The same scent that had clung to her when she buried her face in his chest moments ago. The memory sends a shiver down her spine.
The shopping strip stretches before them, lined with boutiques that gleam under the late afternoon sun. The air smells of salt from the nearby harbor mixed with the faint tang of sunscreen drifting from the beachside cafes.
Violet tilts her head back slightly, letting the sun warm her face as she walks between them. The borrowed sweater shifts against her skin with every breath, the wool softening the sharp edges of her nerves. Her fingers still tremble slightly around Andrey’s, but the steady rhythm of his stride grounds her.
Sascha walks slightly ahead of them, his broad shoulders cutting through the sunlight with effortless grace. He moves like someone who’s used to being seen—not just watched, but really *seen*—and yet there’s something in the way his jaw tightens, the faintest tension in his shoulders, that makes Violet wonder if he’s as comfortable out here in the open as he pretends.
The late afternoon light gilds the sharp angles of his face, catching the stubble along his jawline, and for a moment she forgets to breathe.
Andrey’s thumb traces slow circles on the back of her hand, his fingers calloused from years on the court, but his touch is gentle. “You’re walking too slow,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “Unless you’d rather we carry you.”
Violet exhales through her nose, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “I’m not a child,” she shoots back, though the heat climbing up her neck betrays her.
The sweater swallows her as she pulls her hand from Andrey’s, crossing her arms over her chest—not to hide herself, but to give her racing thoughts somewhere to land. The fabric of the sweater is warm against her flushed skin, the sleeves dangling past her fingers like useless ropes. She tucks them behind her ears, pushing the oversized sleeves away from her face so she can see them clearly. “I can walk just fine.”
Andrey lifts an eyebrow, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh? You were moving like you had lead in your shoes back there.”
Sascha stops mid-stride, turning back with a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “Lead in your shoes?
That’s dramatic even for you, *Andrey*,” Sascha murmurs, his dark eyes flicking between them with quiet amusement. His lips curl just enough to let the smirk through, the sunlight catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone. The way his gaze lingers on Violet, even now, makes her pulse hitch again—the heat of it feels like a brand, slow and deliberate.
Andrey shrugs, his broad shoulders rising and falling with lazy indifference. “I’m just pointing out that you were walking like you’d never left the safety of your own shadow.” His Russian accent wraps around the words, turning the mild criticism into something almost endearing.
Violet’s lips quirk despite herself, the tension in her shoulders easing fractionally. The late afternoon sun paints everything in golden light, casting long shadows across the cobblestones as they stroll along the shopping strip.
Sascha slows his pace to match theirs, falling into step beside Violet with an effortless grace that makes her wonder how he carries such quiet confidence everywhere he goes. His dark eyes flick to her, then to the sweater she’s borrowed, then back again. There’s something in his gaze—something tender—that makes her stomach flip.
”You’re warm enough?” he asks, his voice low enough that the question feels like a secret between the three of them.
His dark eyes hold hers for a moment longer than polite—long enough for Violet’s breath to catch in her throat—before flicking toward the arched entryway of the market ahead, where the promise of cool shade and salt air waits. “A cool drink when we get there, *vielleicht*?”
The syllables curl around her, deliberate and gentle, like a hand offered without expectation of being taken. The late afternoon heat still lingers, but the breeze coming off the Mediterranean smells of salt and something faintly citrus—almost like the scent clinging to Sascha’s sweater still wrapped around her shoulders. She tugs the oversized sleeves away from her wrists, the wool soft against skin that suddenly feels too warm despite the cooling air.
Violet lifts her chin slightly, her brown hair catching the sunlight as she meets his gaze. “I’d like that,” she says softly, the words steady, surprising even herself.
The sweater—his sweater—settles around her like an embrace, warm and safe, the sleeves swallowing her hands completely. The weight of it is comforting in a way she can’t explain.
They reach the arched market entrance, its worn stone archway framed by bougainvillea cascading down in hues of violet and crimson. The scent of fresh herbs and grilled fish drifts from the stalls ahead, mingling with the salt of the nearby sea. The market square unfolds in front of them—a lively chaos of locals and tourists, vendors calling out in French, Italian, and Russian, the air alive with the rhythmic clatter of plates from the café terraces.
The scent of salt air mingles with sizzling garlic from a nearby seafood stall, the aroma wrapping around Violet like a hug from the familiar outdoor markets she’d wandered through in Melbourne.
She takes a deep breath through her nose, the sweater still clinging to her frame like a second skin. The wool smells faintly of cedar and bergamot, of warm sunshine and something inherently *Sascha*. It’s too large, it’s ridiculous, it’s perfect. She pulls the sleeves up past her elbows, just enough to free her hands, but leaves the hem pooling around her thighs where it belongs.
Andrey glances down at her, his blue eyes sharp with quiet amusement.
“You look beautiful, cosy,” he murmurs, the Russian accent wrapping around the words like a caress. The late afternoon sun catches the reddish stubble along his jaw, the golden light gilding his sharp features as he takes in the sight of her swamped in Sascha’s oversized sweater.
Violet’s breath catches at the words, the compliment settling into her bones like warmth after the cool breeze off the sea. Sascha’s sweater swallows her whole, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips, the hem grazing the tops of her thighs, but in this moment, wrapped in cedar and bergamot, she feels more herself than she has in weeks.
The market square hums with life—vendors calling out in French, Italian, the rhythmic clatter of plates from café terraces, the distant laughter of children chasing each other through the stalls.
Sascha slows his pace slightly, falling into step beside her, his shoulder brushing hers as they walk. The heat of him seeps through the borrowed wool, grounding her in the moment. "Do you want something cold?" he asks, his voice low enough that the question feels like a secret between them.
His dark eyes meet hers briefly, the late afternoon light catching the faintest stubble along his jawline. The gesture is simple, but the way his gaze lingers on her—on the borrowed sweater, on the flush still high on her cheeks—sends a shiver through her.
The market square unfolds before them like a living tapestry—stalls overflowing with vibrant produce, the air thick with the scent of garlic and grilled seafood, the distant murmur of French and Italian drifting between the tables. The late afternoon sun paints everything in honeyed hues, softening the edges of the world and making the chaos of the market feel somehow intimate.
Violet’s fingers brush the wool of Sascha’s sweater, the fabric warm and familiar now, its scent of cedar and bergamot wrapping around her like a second skin. The sleeves still swallow her hands, the hem grazing the tops of her thighs, but she doesn’t mind. Not when the warmth of his presence seeps through the borrowed fabric, grounding her in this moment.
A vendor calls out in rapid-fire Italian from behind a stall overflowing with fresh peaches, their golden skin glistening under the sunlight. The scent of ripe fruit mixes with the salty tang of the sea, creating an intoxicating perfume that lingers in the air.
Violet’s stomach growls softly, the sound barely audible over the hum of the market. She glances up at Sascha, her brown eyes reflecting the golden hues of the setting sun. “I’m starving,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.
Andrey tugs gently on her sleeve, his calloused fingers brushing against the wool of Sascha’s sweater. “Come,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind. “There’s a place around the corner with the best *pan bagnat* in Monaco.” His blue eyes flick to her face, searching for something—approval, maybe, or simply the assurance that she’s okay.
“The best in Monaco, I promise.”
Violet exhales through her nose, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “You promise?” she teases, pulling the oversized sleeves of Sascha’s sweater up past her elbows just enough to free her hands. The wool is warm against her flushed skin, the sleeves still dangling past her fingertips like useless ropes She tucks them behind her ears, pushing the fabric away from her face so she can see them clearly. “After that endorsement, how could I refuse?”
The late afternoon sun paints the market square in golden hues, catching the reddish stubble along Andrey’s jaw and the sharp angles of his cheekbones.
He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth lift just enough to undo the severity of his usual intensity. “I do not lie about food,” he says, his voice rough. “Especially not when it involves tuna that has seen the Mediterranean more recently than I have.”
Sascha’s rich laughter cuts through the warm air like a dark ribbon, wrapping around Violet’s shoulders and pulling her deeper into the moment. The sound is deep and genuine, the kind that belongs in a private joke rather than on a public stage. He steps closer, his thigh brushing hers as they walk—deliberate, intentional, the heat of him seeping through the borrowed wool of his sweater.
The market square bustles around them—vendors shouting in fractured French, the sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil, the clink of glasses from a nearby café terrace where an elderly couple shares a bottle of white wine on a red-checkered cloth. The scent of grilled fish and fresh basil wraps around them like a second skin, but Violet only notices Sascha’s cologne beneath it—warm cedar and something darker, something that makes her stomach clench with anticipation.
The vendor at the tuna stall calls out again, his voice rough with the rhythm of the Mediterranean. He holds up a chunk of fish glistening with olive oil and lemon, its pink flesh catching the late afternoon light.
"See? Still wet. Still alive in the water a few hours ago." His accent wraps the words in warmth despite the clinical observation, the Italian rolling off his tongue like a melody.
Violet inhales deeply, the scent of lemon and salt and something faintly metallic filling her lungs. She watches as the vendor expertly slices wedges from the tuna, the knife flashing silver in the sun. Behind the stall, baskets of ripe tomatoes glow like rubies in the golden light.
Sascha's hand finds the small of her back, his palm warm even through the thick wool of his sweater. The pressure is light but deliberate, grounding.
His fingers rest just above where the sweater's hem ends, firmly planted over the lace of her panties but not intrusive. The heat of his palm bleeds through the wool, seeping into her skin like a promise.
"You should try the *socca* too," Sascha murmurs, his voice rough with something far darker than mere hunger. The Italian word for chickpea flatbread rolls off his tongue effortlessly, the syllables accented but melodic. His gaze flicks to hers, dark and knowing. "It’s the best in Monaco. Or so they say."
The vendor calls out another offer, his voice rising above the market chatter.
Sascha translates without looking away from Violet, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on the small of her back—just above the lace. The wool muffles the heat of his touch, but not enough to disguise its intention.
*"He says it's made fresh right here, just like this."*
Violet swallows hard, her pulse fluttering in her throat. The late afternoon sun catches the sheen of sweat on Sascha’s brow, the way his dark hair curls slightly at the nape where the heat has settled. His thumb presses just a little firmer against her waist, the pressure grounding her even as the rest of the world fades into a blur of color and sound.
The vendor’s stall stretches before them, overflowing with golden chickpea flatbreads crackling under the afternoon sun, their edges charred to perfection. The scent of olive oil and grilled herbs swirls around them, thick and intoxicating.
Violet’s stomach growls again, louder this time, the sound barely audible over the chatter of the market. She shifts slightly, the borrowed sweater shifting with her, the hem riding up just enough to expose the lace of her panties—brief, innocent, but enough to make the heat in Sascha’s gaze darken. His fingers flex against her waist, the callouses of his palm rough against the soft wool, the contrast sending a jolt through her.
The vendor’s voice rises again, rapid Italian music that Violet only half-hears—the words flowing over her like warmth.
“Try,” Sascha murmurs, his accent curling around the single syllable like a command wrapped in velvet. His thumb traces the edge of her hip beneath the sweater, the feather-light touch sending a shiver down her spine even as the sun beats down on them. The heat of his palm lingers where it rests, branding her through the borrowed fabric.
Andrey steps forward, his broad shoulders blocking the worst of the sun as he turns to face them, his blue eyes sharp with quiet amusement.
“He says no one leaves Monaco without trying the *socca*,” he translates, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a caress. His gaze flicks to Violet, lingering on the way Sascha’s fingers still trace slow circles on her waist—the way she leans into the touch just slightly, as if she can’t help but seek his warmth. The way her fingers curl into the oversized sleeves of the sweater, the wool swallowing her hands completely. “Eat or starve, *tsvetochek*.
” Andrey’s voice is rough, his Russian accent wrapping around the endearment like smoke. His blue eyes flick between the two of them, the amusement in them softening just enough to make Violet feel seen. “The bread’s still hot. The tuna’s still swimming pool-fresh.”
Sascha’s fingers still trace slow circles on her waist beneath the sweater, the heat of his palm seeping through the wool like a brand. The vendor shouts again in rapid Italian, holding up a wedge of the golden chickpea flatbread, its surface still glistening with olive oil.
Violet exhales through her nose, the warmth of the sun and the weight of their presence pressing against her skin.
The sleeves of Sascha’s sweater swallow her hands completely, the wool soft against her flushed fingers as she untucks them from behind her ears. The hem pools around her thighs, the fabric warm from her body heat, the cedar and bergamot scent of him wrapped around her like a second skin. She doesn’t mind the way she looks—swamped, ridiculous, perfect.
The vendor calls out again, his voice rough and insistent, holding up a wedge of golden chickpea flatbread that glistens under the late afternoon sun. The bread is marked with perfect grill lines, the surface still steaming slightly, the scent of olive oil and herbs drifting toward them like an invitation.
Violet inhales deeply, the aroma wrapping around her like a second skin—warm, earthy, utterly irresistible.
Sascha’s fingers still trace slow circles on her waist beneath the sweater, the heat of his palm seeping through the wool like a brand. The bass notes of a nearby accordion melody stutter through the market square, a lazy rhythm that syncopates with the pulse of anticipation in Violet’s chest.
She takes a step forward, the borrowed sweater shifting against her skin as she moves.
The vendor’s outstretched hand holds the hot wedge of chickpea flatbread just within reach, the steam rising between them in a delicate dance of light and shadow. The bread is marked with perfect grill lines, the surface still glistening with olive oil and herbs, the scent so rich it makes her mouth water.
Violet reaches out instinctively, her fingers brushing the vendor’s wrist as she takes the offering. The bread is still warm enough to sting her fingertips, but she doesn’t care. She exhales through her nose, the heat from the bread warming her face as she brings it to her lips.
The first bite is revelatory.
Warm, nutty, rich with garlic and fresh rosemary, the texture somewhere between a cracker and a soft pretzel, but entirely its own. The olive oil coats her tongue in a silky richness that lingers long after she swallows.
Violet moans softly, the sound instinctive, unfiltered, a quiet rush of pleasure escaping her lips without permission. The warmth of the bread seeps into her fingers, the heat of the market square pressing against her skin, the borrowed sweater somehow still smelling faintly of Sascha’s cologne despite the olive oil and herbs clinging to her.
The vendor watches her with quiet delight, his Italian rolling off his tongue as he nods approvingly at her obvious enjoyment.
Violet doesn’t realize she’s stepped slightly closer to Sascha until the heat of his body presses against her side, his thigh brushing hers through the wool of the sweater. His fingers still rest at the small of her back, the pressure light but deliberate. The first bite dissolves on her tongue, rich and nutty and warm, the garlic and rosemary a perfect harmony against the crisp texture. She swallows, then licks her lips instinctively, catching the last traces of olive oil on her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.
The quick motion draws Sascha’s dark gaze like a magnet. His thumb stills against the small of her back, the calloused pad pressing just a little firmer into the wool as if testing the weight of her. The vendor clears his throat, translating something rapid and musical in rapid Italian—likely praise for the bread or perhaps a comment about the way Violet’s face lit up with pleasure. She barely hears it.
The late afternoon sun paints the scene in honeyed light, catching the sheen of sweat on Sascha’s brow, the way his dark hair curls just slightly at the nape under the heat.
His thumb presses a little firmer against the small of her back—grounding her, branding her through the thick wool of his sweater. The vendor’s rapid Italian curls around them like smoke, the words flowing over Violet in a melody she barely comprehends as she licks the olive oil from her lower lip. His fingers flex slightly beneath the fabric, the callouses rough against the soft wool, the contrast sending a jolt through her.
Andrey shifts beside them, his broad shoulders cutting through the sunlight as he leans in just enough to catch the scent of the bread, his blue eyes sharp with quiet approval.
"Good?" he asks, his Russian accent wrapping around the single syllable like a promise.
Violet nods, the motion jerky as she swallows the last bite of the *socca*, the warm flavors still lingering on her tongue. The borrowed sweater shifts against her skin as she tucks her hands into the sleeves, the wool warm from her body heat. She exhales through her nose, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "Better than good," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. The late afternoon sun catches the flush high on her cheeks, the golden light gilding the sharp angles of her face.
Violet tucks her fingers deeper into the sleeves of Sascha's borrowed sweater, the wool warm against her flushed skin, the scent of cedar and bergamot still clinging to the fabric like a second skin. The hem of the sweater pools around her thighs, swallowing her frame completely.
Sascha watches her with quiet intensity, his dark eyes tracing the curve of her lips—still glistening faintly from the olive oil. His thumb presses a little firmer against the small of her back, the pressure grounding her even as the rest of the world fades into a blur of color and sound.
Andrey clears his throat, his voice rough but not unkind.
"We should finish this conversation elsewhere," he says, his Russian accent wrapping around the words in a way that makes the command feel less like an order and more like a promise. His blue eyes flick to Sascha, then back to Violet, searching her face for something—approval, maybe, or simply the assurance that she’s okay. The late afternoon sun catches the faintest stubble along his jaw, the golden light gilding his sharp features as he steps slightly ahead of them, breaking the heat of Sascha’s gaze.
Violet exhales through her nose, the warmth of the *socca* still lingering in her stomach, the borrowed sweater still wrapped around her like an embrace.
The late afternoon sun paints the market square in honeyed hues, the golden light catching the reddish stubble along Andrey’s jaw as he steps slightly ahead of them, his broad shoulders cutting through the warm air like a prow through waves.
Sascha’s hand still rests at the small of her back, his palm warm even through the thick wool of his sweater. The pressure is light but deliberate, grounding her in the moment. His dark eyes meet hers, the late afternoon light catching the faint stubble along his jawline, the curve of his mouth pulling into something that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t not a smile either.
"Yes," he agrees softly, his voice rough with something far warmer than the Mediterranean sun beating down on them. The weight of his hand on her back settles in, grounding. He doesn’t rush her. He doesn’t push. He simply waits, the quiet intensity of his presence a steadying force Violet feels even through the thick wool of the sweater still wrapped around her shoulders.
The market square hums around them—vendors calling out in fractured French, the sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil, the distant hum of Italian chatter from a café terrace where an elderly couple shares a bottle of white wine against the red-checkered cloth.
Andrey turns back, his blue eyes flicking between Violet and Sascha with quiet assessment.
“There’s a place just past the next stall,” he says, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a caress. “They do cold *chiaro di luna*—Monaco’s version of limoncello—and proper *panini* stuffed with that same tuna.” His gaze lingers on Violet for a beat longer than necessary, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to soften the usual severity of his expression. “Come. It’s shady. And quieter.”
The promise of shade and relative seclusion draws them forward naturally, like moths to a flickering flame. The vendor at the chickpea stall offers another wedge of *socca*, this one still steaming, butAndrey waves it off with a sharp shake of his head and a few rapid-fire Italian words that sound like dismissal but carry no malice.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.