Chapter Text
The air inside Bijoux was expensive—it was a luxury to simply breathe it in. A cool curated breeze filtered through the space to perfection, faintly floral, carrying the quiet weight of wealth. Polished marble floors reflected the soft glow of the ceiling lights, while the aisles were lined with glass cases of diamonds lit from within. They sparkled like ice, every cut imaginable on display: brilliant rounds, clean geometric emeralds, princess cuts perfectly sharp and pristine. Each stone refracted the light into delicate prisms of color, their lustre flawless and alluring.
Ilya held the heavy door open for his boyfriend, one large hand resting at the small of Shane’s back. His thick build and towering height filled the doorway completely as he stepped in behind him, broad chest brushing against Shane’s back. He slid his sunglasses into his signature honey-brown curls, blue eyes sharp and watchful as they scanned the room before softening the moment they landed on his lover.
Shane stepped inside with the graceful, runway-trained stride of a supermodel, his lithe figure moving with effortless confidence, like the world belonged to him. He was by no means short, but next to Ilya he looked small and delicate, his toned body and narrow waist accentuated by perfectly tailored clothes. His warm brown eyes were already flicking critically over the displays as he brushed his dark waves back from his freckled cheeks. Ilya wanted to kiss every single one. Shane looked expensive—and he was—and the sight made something warm and satisfied settle in Ilya’s chest.
“Baby,” Ilya murmured, voice low, “anything you want today. We have time before we need to get ready for the gala.”
Shane glanced up at him, lips curving into that spoiled little smile Ilya adored. “I know, Daddy. That’s why we’re here." He leaned in closer, hands sliding up Ilya’s chest as he looked up at him with those big pleading eyes—the ones that Ilya would do anything for, and they both knew it. “I need something perfect for tonight. Something that says I belong to you without screaming it.”
A sales associate in a sleek black suit approached, her smile welcoming and professional. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome. Looking for anything in particular?”
Shane didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Show me all of the choker-style rivières, marquise cuts, illusion-set, high-quality stones, nothing bulky. I have a delicate neck—I don’t want it to overwhelm me.”
The sales associate kept pace with him, hands clasped behind her back as she guided him through the selection.
“This one,” Shane said, gesturing toward a tennis necklace in the case, “is hideous. Too yellow. The cut is wrong, and whoever priced it at forty thousand dollars should be embarrassed.” He moved on without waiting for a response.
Ilya pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.
She nodded, still smiling. Ilya caught her eye over Shane’s head and gave her a small, apologetic look. She relaxed slightly.
Shane drifted to the next case, tilting his head as his eyes moved methodically over each piece. He had opinions about diamonds the way other people had opinions about politics—loudly, specifically, and with complete confidence that he was right. Ilya had learned early on that Shane was, in fact, always right.
“These are better,” Shane admitted, which from him was practically a standing ovation. He leaned closer to the glass. “But the settings are too heavy. I don’t want something that looks like a chandelier.”
“We have a selection of more minimal designs,” the associate offered. “If you’d like to follow me—”
“I’m looking.” Shane straightened and moved on without so much as a glance in her direction.
Ilya followed a few steps behind, unhurried. He liked watching Shane like this. Liked the way he moved through a room as though it existed for him, as though the cases had been arranged specifically for his review. There was something almost regal about it—the slight lift of his chin, the particular quality of his dissatisfaction, the way he made pickiness look like a form of taste, because with Shane, it was.
His friends called it stuck up. Ilya called it sexy.
They moved through two more cases, Shane dismissing each option with open disdain. The associate’s professional composure was beginning to crack.
Then Shane stopped.
Ilya saw it the moment it happened—the way Shane’s shoulders dropped, the soft gasp, the way his eyes lit up as he stepped closer to the case.
There, set apart from the others on a velvet display, sat the perfect diamond choker. Rivière-style, each stone set in platinum so fine it was nearly invisible. It glittered in a single, delicate line. It looked like it had been designed to rest against Shane’s neck. In the center, a small pendant caught the light—shaped, unmistakably, like the letter “I”.
Shane’s hand found Ilya’s. His fingers curled around it and he tugged, pulling him closer.
“Look,” Shane said, voice soft with reverence. “Ilya. Daddy. Look at it.”
Ilya looked. The necklace was beautiful, yes. But it was Shane’s face that captivated him—bright with sudden, open wanting, all the earlier tension gone. It made something in Ilya’s chest pull tight. He wanted to give him anything. Everything.
“It’s perfect,” Shane breathed. He turned to the associate. “This one. I want this one.”
The woman’s smile faltered.
“I’m so sorry,” she said carefully, like she was delivering bad news to someone she knew wouldn’t take it well. “This piece is actually reserved. We have a client who’s already arranged to purchase it.”
Shane’s face went blank. “I’m sorry?”
“Unfortunately, the necklace has been placed on hold. But we have several similar—”
“On hold.” Shane repeated, voice tight with disbelief. “It’s sitting in your case, on display, and it’s on hold.”
“We sometimes display reserved pieces while—”
“So why would you even put it out?” The softness had vanished from Shane’s voice. His jaw tightened, and Ilya watched the brightness in his eyes shift into something sharper.
“That’s—that’s bullshit. You’re displaying something that’s not available? How does that make any sense?” His voice wavered. Tears threatened to fall as he added, quieter, “What am I supposed to do? Fall in love with it and then—” He stopped, took a shaky breath, and straightened. “Can I speak to your supervisor?”
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice was low, steady.
“No, seriously, I want to speak to—”
“Printsessa.”
Shane’s mouth snapped shut. He bit his lip and blinked rapidly, trying not to cry. Ilya found it devastatingly endearing.
Ilya stepped forward, smoothly positioning himself between Shane and the associate. He pulled Shane closer, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles over his back while he offered the woman a polite, charming smile.
“I understand the piece is reserved,” he said. “I’m sorry for the trouble. Is the manager available?”
“I — yes, of course, one moment.”
She retreated quickly. Ilya turned back to Shane, who now had his arms crossed tight over his chest, his lashes wet with tears. He looked so beautiful and ridiculous. Ilya wanted to eat him.
“They put it on display,” Shane muttered, voice tight.
“I know.”
“That’s so—”
“I know, baby.” Ilya reached up and brushed the tears away with his thumb, cupping Shane’s jaw. Shane leaned into the touch despite himself. “Don’t cry, malysh. You’ll get what you want.”
Shane sniffled. “You don’t know that.”
“Daddy knows everything,” Ilya teased, smirking.
Shane let out a wet little laugh. “Shut up.”
The manager entered—older, silver-haired, quiet authority that came from a lifetime of selling things to people with more money than patience. Ilya shook his hand.
“I understand the necklace is reserved,” Ilya said calmly. “My boyfriend has his heart set on it. I’m prepared to compensate the store generously for any inconvenience this causes the original buyer.” He glanced around the showroom. “I’m sure they can find something else. There are plenty of beautiful pieces here.”
The manager’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened with interest.
Ilya casually named a number—triple the original price—and slid his black card across the counter.
“I’ll make a call,” the manager said after a brief pause.
Ilya nodded. “Thank you.”
He looked down at Shane, who had wrapped himself around his waist, face tucked into his chest. Shane’s fingers curled into the back of Ilya’s shirt as he bit his lip, anticipation written all over his flushed cheeks and damp lashes. Fucking adorable.
“What?” Shane muttered, glancing up at him.
“Nothing.” Ilya smiled. “Nothing, angel.”
Shane looked away, his mouth curving slightly.
Ten minutes later, the necklace was removed from its display and laid on a velvet tray. As the associate held it out, Shane’s face transformed completely—the irritation dissolved, brightness returning as his whole body angled toward the necklace.
“Can I—” Shane started.
“Let me,” Ilya said.
Shane turned. Ilya took the necklace carefully, letting his fingers brush along Shane’s neck as he lifted it. Shane squirmed and shivered at the touch.
Ilya settled the cold platinum against Shane’s throat and fastened the clasp. His fingers lingered, brushing along the chain with quiet reverence. Shane let out a small gasp when Ilya leaned in, his breath warm against Shane’s ear.
“Sovershennoye,” Ilya murmured. Perfect. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’re mine.” His thumbs moved slowly, adjusting the “I” charm. “Everyone who looks at you tonight will know exactly who you belong to.”
He felt Shane swallow beneath his fingers.
“Everyone already knows I’m yours,” Shane said, quietly.
“Good.” Ilya pressed his lips to the back of Shane’s neck, just above the clasp.
He straightened. Shane turned around, about to say something, but the words died on his tongue the moment he looked up at Ilya’s face. Overcome with happiness, he leaned in and kissed him.
When they parted, Shane turned to the small mirror on the display counter and studied his reflection. His fingers rose to trace the necklace, moving slowly over each stone until they reached the small pendant at the center. The “I” glistened beautifully in the light.
He smiled, slow and satisfied. He had gotten exactly what he wanted. It was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen. He would have paid ten times what he did for this.
“Come on,” Ilya said, still smiling as he took Shane’s hand and led him toward the exit. Shane laced their fingers together, his free hand drifting back up to the necklace every few steps, as if to make sure that it was still there.
Outside, the afternoon light was warm and golden. Shane squinted against it, glancing at the horizon before looking up at Ilya. His brown eyes were serious, deep with thought, then he broke into a wide, radiant smile, overcome with love and affection.
“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right? I love you and I’m really, really happy that I’m yours, Daddy.”
Ilya looked at him for a long moment. This boy. This ridiculous, beautiful, spoiled, perfect boy.
“I know, baby. Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” he said softly. I love you too.
Shane beamed. Then, with the seamless pivot that was purely him, he squeezed Ilya’s hand and said, “There’s a restaurant I want to try. It just got its third Michelin star and apparently the reservation waitlist is, like, four months but obviously we’re not waiting—”
Ilya laughed. “Obviously.”
“—so you’ll figure it out.” Shane glanced up at him sideways, already knowing the answer. “Right?”
Ilya brought their joined hands up and pressed his lips to Shane’s knuckles.
“Anything you want, moya printsessa.”
Twelve stories up, Oku occupied the entire top floor of the tallest building in Beverly Hills. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the room in the last of the afternoon light, the sky deepening as golden hour approached. Soft ambient blues gave the space a serene, oceanic feel, as if the city below had dissolved into the sea, despite being at its center. Beyond the glass stretched a beautiful view of the mountains and the ocean—the kind of beauty reserved for photographs and paintings.
Getting a table at Oku was like winning the lottery, unless you were Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. The host recognized them immediately. They were seated at a corner table by the window within ninety seconds of walking in.
“This is nice,” Shane said, sliding into his chair after Ilya pulled it out for him. He set his bag on the empty seat beside him and tilted his face up toward the view. The sunlight caught in the diamonds around his neck, scattering little sparks across the table.
Ilya sat down across from him, watching the light dance across Shane’s freckles. It was unfair how effortlessly gorgeous he was.
“You’re staring,” Shane said without turning.
“Yes.”
Shane smirked. “Good.”
A server approached— a young man, who seemed new. He set down two menus and a wine list.
“Good afternoon. May I start you off with something to drink? Sparkling, still, or—”
“Sparkling,” Shane said. “With ice and lemon.”
“Of course. And for you sir?”
Ilya ordered a glass of red wine. The server nodded and turned to leave, but Shane stopped him.
“And I’d like to see the nutrition information, please”
The server paused, “Of course. I’ll bring that right out.”
He disappeared toward the kitchen, looking slightly nervous.
Shane picked up the menu. Ilya glanced at him over the top of his own.
“Macrobiotic again?” Ilya asked.
“Yep.” Shane didn’t look up, scanning the options. “I have that swimwear cover shoot in three weeks. ”
“I can’t wait,” Ilya said, smirking. “I want the first copy.”
Shane smiles back. “Sure. I’ll even sign it for you.”
The server returned with the nutrition packet—a discreet little leather folio that the restaurant clearly kept on hand for guests exactly like Shane. He flipped through it with focused precision, as if he was looking over a contract. Ilya watched his eyebrows pull together as he calculated, lips moving slightly. Ilya found it inexplicably hot the way that Shane could go from easy and playful to his uptight little princess in seconds.
“I’ll have the broccolini,” Shane said, closing the folio. “Steamed. Not grilled. No oil. Light salt only, no pepper. And the branzino, but I want it with the skin removed and cooked in water, not butter. Could you confirm that with the kitchen?”
“Of course, sir.”
“And no garnish. No herbs on the plate, nothing decorative. Just the fish and the broccolini.”
“Absolutely.”
The server turned to Ilya looking slightly relieved.
“Ribeye,” Ilya said. “Medium rare. Whatever the kitchen wants to do with it.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
Once the server left, Shane reached across the table, picked up Ilya’s wine glass, sniffed it, made a small face, and set it down.
“Have a sip, baby. You haven’t ordered anything real to drink.”
“No. I have my water right here, and it has zero calories.”
“Yes. And zero flavor and zero fun.”
Shane stuck his tongue out at him.
The food arrived. Shane’s branzino came out plated exactly as he’d asked. He looked at it for a long moment, picked up his fork, took a single careful bite, and then set the fork down.
“It’s grilled.”
The server, who had only just walked away, turned back immediately, as if he’d suspected this might happen.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“The fish. It’s grilled. I asked for it poached in water.” Shane’s voice was quiet, with a restrained edge underneath—that particular tone he got when he was trying hard not to be rude but didn’t entirely trust himself. “I can taste the char. I’m sure it’s fine for someone else, but it’s not what I ordered.”
“Of course. I’ll have the kitchen prepare it the way you requested. My apologies.”
He took the plate and disappeared.
Shane picked at his broccolini in silence for a moment. Ilya, across the table, cut a small piece of his steak and chewed it slowly, watching him.
The fish came back. Shane took a careful bite. Made a small considering expression. Took another bite. Then he set his fork down again.
“It’s overcooked. The texture is wrong. Can you bring a fresh one?”
The server’s professional smile didn’t waver. “I’ll have them prepare a fresh piece, sir.”
“Thank you.” Shane picked up his water and took a long sip. Over the rim of the glass, his eyes flickered to Ilya.
Ilya said nothing, just sipped his wine, the corner of his mouth curving. The tension in Shane’s shoulders, the way he was holding himself so carefully polite while clearly irritated—it made Ilya want to drag him into the bathroom right now and fuck every bit of that frustration out of him. But for now, he was forced to just watch and enjoy.
The third fish was perfect. Shane ate three bites and then put his fork down. His eyes flicked up to Ilya, suddenly uncertain.
“What?” Ilya asked.
“Was I rude?” he asked quietly. The bratty edge had softened into something smaller. “I didn’t mean to be. I just… I have to be careful. For the shoot next week. And for tonight. I can’t show up looking bloated or off.”
Ilya set down his knife.
“You weren’t rude, baby.”
“I made him take it back twice.”
“You asked for the food you wanted. That’s what he’s there for.”
Shane finally turned to look at him. His face was heavy with self-doubt that he usually kept hidden under his sharpness, but he could never hide anything from Ilya.
“Your friends think I’m rude, don't they?” He glanced down, fingers brushing the diamond collar again like it grounded him. “They always joke about how stuck-up I am. They’re going to be at the gala. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Ilya leaned forwards in his chair.
“Is this about what Marleau said? He is full of shit.”
“He said it in front of everyone. At the team dinner. That you should put me on a leash and I —” Shane swallowed. He picked up his water again, busying his hands. “Everyone laughed.”
“They were teasing.”
“They weren’t teasing you.”
“Shane.” Ilya reached across the table and caught Shane’s wrist, gently, “Look at me.”
Shane glanced up hesitantly.
“My teammates joke because they’re jealous,” Ilya said, simply. “You are beautiful. You are mine. You walk into a room and everyone forgets what they were doing. None of them have anyone like you. So they make jokes.” He turned Shane’s hand over in his and pressed a kiss against the inside of his wrist. “Is nothing.”
“We’ll see them tonight. At the gala.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll do it again.”
“Probably.”
Shane’s mouth twisted.
“And I will tell them, the same way I always tell them, that they should be so lucky.” Ilya brought Shane’s hand up and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm.
Shane was quiet. Then, very small, “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Ilya let go of his hand. Shane picked at his broccolini for another moment. Then his eyes flicked over to Ilya’s plate and lingered.
Ilya caught his gaze. “You want some?”
“No.”
“Printsessa.”
“It’s red meat.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not on my plan.”
“Fuck the plan.”
Shane bit the inside of his cheek. Ilya cut a small piece, stabbed it with his fork, and held it across the table.
“One bite.”
“I’m not supposed to—”
“One bite, malysh. For me.”
The look Shane gave him was withering. The way he then leaned forward, opened his mouth, and let Ilya feed him the bite of steak directly off his fork was something else entirely. He chewed slowly. His eyes closed. When he swallowed, he made a soft sound that he probably didn’t realize he made, and Ilya smirked.
“It’s good,” Shane admitted.
“I know.”
“You’re a bad influence.”
“I know.”
Ilya cut another piece, smaller this time, and held it out. Shane didn’t even pretend to protest. He just leaned forward again and took the bite from Ilya’s fork
“My agent is going to kill me.”
“I’ll talk to your agent.”
“You’ll kill my agent.”
“Same thing.”
Shane laughed—a real laugh, the kind that crinkled his eyes. He picked up his own fork, speared a piece of his broccolini, and held it across the table. “Your turn.”
“That is rabbit food.”
“Eat it.”
“Shane—”
“You fed me, I feed you, that’s how it works.”
Ilya sighed, leaned forward, and let Shane feed him the broccolini. He chewed. He swallowed. He looked at Shane with an expression of profound suffering.
“This is what you eat all the time?”
“This is what I eat all the time.”
“It tastes like grass.”
“It tastes like discipline, Ilya.”
“It tastes like grass that has been hurt.”
Shane lost it. He covered his mouth with his napkin and laughed until his shoulders shook, the necklace at his throat catching the light, his face going pink under his freckles. Ilya watched him and thought, not for the first time that day, that he would burn down anything in the world that tried to take this from him.
“My poor little bunny,” Ilya said when Shane had recovered. “Eating leaves and grass all day.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
Shane bit his lip, smiling, and looked out the window again.
It was then that he stretched his leg out — slow, deliberate, with that particular small smile he got when he knew exactly what he was doing — and slid his foot up the inside of Ilya’s calf.
Ilya didn’t move.
Shane’s foot kept going. Slid higher. The toe of his shoe traced along the inseam of Ilya’s slacks. Shane was looking out the window like he was very interested in the view.
Ilya set his wine glass down.
Under the table, his hand dropped, calmly, and closed around Shane’s ankle.
Shane’s eyes flicked over.
Ilya pressed hard enough to barely hurt, Shane’s ankle held entirely inside his grip. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just held him there, watching Shane’s face, while the dining room hummed around them.
Shane’s mouth had parted slightly.
“Be careful, zaichik,” Ilya warned. “Or I will take you into the bathroom right now and remind you who you belong to. In a restaurant full of people. Do you want that?”
Shane’s tongue darted out across his lower lip. “Promise, Daddy?”
This boy was going to kill him. Ilya’s grip tightened, just for a second. Shane made a small sound and Ilya watched the color climb up the side of his neck, past the diamonds, into his cheek.
Ilya released his ankle. He smoothed Shane’s pant leg back into place, slowly, and picked up his wine.
“Eat your fish, printsessa.”
Shane exhaled. He picked up his fork with an unsteady hand.
“You’re mean,” he murmured.
“You haven’t seen mean yet, my cute little bunny.”
Shane gave him a look that promised retaliation later and went back to his broccolini, but his cheeks stayed pink for a good five minutes.
The check came in a leather folio. Ilya glanced at it, took out his card without looking at the total, and slid it back across the table. When the server came to collect it, Ilya looked up at him with the same easy smile he gave most people.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry for the trouble with the fish. The kitchen was very patient with us.”
“It was no trouble at all, sir.”
“It was, but thank you for saying so.”
When the folio came back, Ilya signed it, added a tip, and closed it. The server picked it up, glanced inside out of habit, and went very still for a fraction of a second.
He looked at Ilya. Looked at the check. Looked at Ilya again.
“Sir, this is — are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“This is —”
“Have a good afternoon.”
The server pressed the folio to his chest, said something that wasn’t quite a complete sentence, and walked away looking slightly stunned.
Shane watched him go.
“How much did you tip him?”
“Enough.”
“Ilya.”
“It was a hard table.”
Shane smiled. He reached across the table and laced his fingers through Ilya’s.
“You’re a good man,” he said, softly.
“I’m a man who is in love with a difficult one.”
They stood. Ilya helped Shane on with his light jacket, smoothed it across his shoulders, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Shane reached up and adjusted the diamonds around his neck.
“Boutique next?” Ilya asked.
“Boutique next.” Shane looped his arm through Ilya’s. “And then I’m getting custom shoes, by the way. Just so you’re prepared.”
“Of course you are.”
“Don’t ‘of course you are’ me.”
“Of course you are, moya printsessa.”
Shane smiled, tipped his head against Ilya’s shoulder for one warm second as they walked toward the elevators, and the sun followed them out.