Page 195 of Malicious Claim

An instrumental swelled from nowhere. The men started dancing around her. The chocolate tray guy stepped forward and began to sing. His voice was smooth, sure and golden. The others joined in, backing him up in perfect rhythm.

Leila felt so embarrassed, but the good kind, the kind that made her smile despite herself. She wasn't used to this kind of attention, lavish, theatrical, completely indulgent. For a moment, she wanted to laugh it off, pretend it was all too much. But then her eyes caught on the man holding the tray with the watermelon, and something in his smile softened her.

She couldn't peel her eyes from their solid abs and chests. They stretched their trays toward her, and Leila's hand hovered thoughtfully before picking a slice of watermelon. She bit from the juicy fruit, dabbing at her mouth with the back of her palm before placing the half eaten fruit back on the tray.

Sofia retreated silently as another woman, dressed in an impeccable white dress, took Leila by the arm, gently leading her away. The dancers continued their seductive movements, but they kept their distance now, more like part of the background than the main act.

The woman, clearly a masseuse, guided Leila to a padded massage table beneath a white canopy. Soft curtains framed the space, billowing gently in the breeze, offering just enough privacy. A smaller table nearby held an assortment of oils.

As Leila slipped out of her clothes and laid herself down, tension she hadn't even realized she carried began to melt from her shoulders.

It was terrifying how quickly her walls crumbled under the masseuse's hands. Her body sighed before her mind caught up, surrendering to a comfort it had forgotten how to crave.

She groaned in delight as firm hands kneaded into her skin. "Oh my god. This feels illegal."

She didn't even notice Makros until the masseuse moved to her lower back and she opened her eyes, only then did she see him standing at the edge of the curtain, silently observing her.

He was wearing the same black shirt from work but with lesser formality as it was open at the chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asked with a slow smile.

"Long enough to know you're enjoying yourself."

"When did you plan all this?"

Makros started walking toward her, unhurried. "This morning. Thought it might take the edge off... you know, getting shot."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Most people just bring flowers."

"I'm not most people."

He stopped beside her and brushed his fingers over her exposed back, gently.

"I wanted you to feel worshipped," he murmured. "Desired. Not just safe... but untouchable."

She shivered under his touch, then reached back and pulled his hand down over her waist.

She'd told herself she was fine just being protected. But tonight, something inside her had changed. She didn't want safety, she wanted to be consumed.

"I feel all of that, Makros. But now I want more."

He gave a crooked grin. "You want more, gynaika mou? You've barely tasted the beginning."

With a nod, he dismissed the masseuse. The woman bowed slightly, then disappeared through the curtains. The male dancers turned, synchronized, and exited silently.

Leila pushed herself up onto her elbows. "You cleared them out fast."

"I don't like to share," he said, voice dipping.

"Even when they were just eye candy?"

"They don't get to look at what's mine."

He circled the table and leaned in close, pressing his lips against her shoulder. Then her neck. Then just below her ear.

Makros didn't just see her—he studied her like art. The way her muscles loosened, the way she breathed when she thought no one was watching. And it struck him again, that nothing he owned felt as dangerous or as divine as this woman.

"You think this was the surprise?" he whispered. "No. This—" his hand slid beneath the towel that barely covered her hips "—is a surprise."