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“Here.” His lips curl into a smirk, and there’s a flicker of satisfaction in his otherwise serious eyes when he sees my wide-eyed, open-mouthed reaction.

“Ohhh. I get it. You’re a visual comedian, like Carrot Top.”

His lips flatten. “I have no idea what that means.” But he thrusts the shirt at me and points to a door next to the closet. “Go get changed.”

“Bossy,” I grumble, snatching the shirt.

The bathroom matches the bedroom to an unnerving degree—right down to another football player’s picture hanging on the wall. I peel off my blood-soaked clothes, rinsing my skin in the sink to erase any evidence of Ian’s episode.

The "tent" shirt is even worse than the bloody uniform. It swallows me whole, hanging awkwardly.

“Hey, are you emotionally committed to this shirt?” I call out.

“No.”

“Excellent.” I wiggle my fingers in my best Mr. Burns impression.

With a few creative folds and a satisfying rip of the sleeves, I transform the oversized shirt into a form-fitting dress, tying the sleeves as a makeshift belt. I pull my hair into a neat bun to hide any stray blood that might have mixed in. My black heels, previously hidden by my slacks, complete the look—hot mess sexy vibes.

I step out of the bathroom, and his eyes widen as his mouth drops open. “Are you a wizard? How did you do that?”

I shrug. “Way too much time on YouTube.” I point to his hands. “You should wash.”

He huffs. “Well, now it’s going to be underwhelming when I come out looking exactly the same.”

“Not everyone can be fashion magicians. Some of us have to settle for being mid-level comedians from the ’90s.”

While he’s in the bathroom, I wander around, inspecting the books on the shelves. Part research, part curiosity—and maybe just a little intel gathering. “Was this your room?”

“Yes.”

“Not a lot of space for personality in this house, was there?”

“Nope.”

He steps out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. His eyes scan me slowly, his jaw tightening as he rubs his chin. His expression shifts, darkening and unreadable yet intense. A flash crosses his face, something I’ve only ever imagined seeing from him.

Suddenly, the room feels massive and yet suffocatingly small, the bed dominating the area as tension settles in the space between us.

He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, the lust vanishes, replaced by his usual stoic control. “Come on,” he says, his voice flat.

We head into the hallway.

Another door swings open, and his brother steps out, adjusting his shirt as though he’s just been interrupted.

“Ian and your wife left in an ambulance,” Dimitri says, his tone sharp, each word dripping with restrained rage.

Damien freezes, panic flashing across his face. “What happened? Is she okay?” It’s the first time I’ve seen genuine concern for his family.

Dimitri barks out the truth, his jaw tight and shoulders stiff. “Ian had an allergy attack and fell into a table, sliced the shit out of his arm.” He jerks his chin toward me. “Katya saved him.”

Damien shoves Dimitri, his voice rising. “What the fuck? Why didn’t someone get me?”

My boss doesn’t flinch. He juts his chin toward the room his brother just came out of. “You were busy fucking my future wife.”

Sveti steps out behind Damien, her dress wrinkled and her cheeks red. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. Her lips part, but Dimitri raises a hand, silencing her.

His glare is icy as he turns back to his brother. “You did me a favor. Now I don’t have to fuck her.” He motions to me without sparing Sveti another glance. “Come, Katya.”