With a sigh, I slid my phone into my coat pocket. Then, looking up, I stopped. My shoes crunched on gravel as I turned in a slow circle. The sun had fallen, more than half of it hiding behind the horizon. Only a crumbling apartment complex and a few concrete buildings surrounded me.
I was completely lost.
Fighting the shiver that rolled through me, I started to walk.
The wind whistled.
The shadows grew darker.
And I suddenly missed Ivan very badly.
A crawling sensation stroked the back of my neck and slid down my spine. It was the feeling of being watched. I gripped my bag tighter, fighting the urge to look behind me, but the suspense turned into an anxiety that tightened my lungs, and I couldn’t resist the pull anymore.
A man—undoubtedly, by the size and swagger—followed me. He wore jeans and a dark coat, and his eyes held steady on the black driving gloves he was pulling on, though I somehow knew I had his full attention.
I turned my head forward, my chest cold.
A gust of wind whipped at my ponytail, and with it, one word rode through my mind on a whisper that sounded like a pitch-black room and goose-bumped skin.
D’yavol.
I glanced behind me. He drew closer with every step, his strides much longer than mine. Only a few yards away now, I could see a jagged scar slashed across his face, from ear to jaw. The last ray of sunlight glinted on a silver knife in his hand.
Facing forward again, my breath escaped in pants, misting in front of my face, while my blood froze to solid ice. When parked cars and light from the windows of a building came into view, I dropped my bag and ran.
My long legs had always put me at the front of the pack during cheer practice in high school, but the footsteps hitting concrete behind me now were close on my heels. I wasn’t going to make it to the front door, so I changed course for the back and prayed it wasn’t locked.
Please, don’t be locked.
I came to a halt in front of the door, and in an instant, one of those black riding gloves wrapped around my ponytail and pulled. I cried out in pain as I went flying backward. My head hit the pavement, and a kaleidoscope of lights flickered behind my eyes.
Rough hands tore at my clothes.
“No,” I moaned, but my consciousness was stuck in sticky black sludge, and I couldn’t get out. Pain and icy air wrapped around my body, rousing me from darkness. I peeled my eyes open.
Scarred face.
Dark coat.
Denim-clad legs straddling my hips.
“No!”
I fought his hands, but my body wouldn’t work right. My head—it felt like it was split open.
The man ripped my blouse down the middle.
“Stop,” I sobbed.
He did.
It took a moment to realize what had caught his attention. He lifted the nautical star necklace from between my breasts and looked almost confused . . . or afraid. Whatever it was, I used his distraction to rake my nails down the scar on his face.
He reared back to cover the wound with a hand, hissing, “Ty malen’kaya suka.” You little bitch.
I scrambled out from beneath him. He seized my ankle, but I kicked back with the other foot, making contact with something that caused him to grunt in pain.
Stumbling to my feet, I fought the dizziness that grabbed at me but couldn’t hold on. My sweaty grasp fumbled with the door handle. It opened, and I slipped inside, colliding face-first with something solid. I hit it—him—so hard, the remaining air in my lungs escaped me on impact. I fell backward, but with a soft Russian curse, the man wrapped an arm around my waist to steady me.
The door had just shut with a thud when a burst of cold air announced it was open again. I spun out of the man’s grasp and moved behind him, expecting to see a scarred face, but it was only a boy wearing a white apron and carrying a crate of liquor.
“Potrebovalos’ vsego tri minuty, kak ya skazal,” he snickered. “Andrei, ty dolzhen mne—” His gaze found me, and he stared, muttering a Russian, “Holy shit.”
Sucking air into my lungs, I stepped back to take in my surroundings.
I’d lost my coat somewhere in the alley outside, and my shirt was ripped open, revealing the lacy white bra beneath. My thoughts were trapped underwater, and I couldn’t find the energy to care what I looked like even with an audience.
Smoke lazed in the room lit by one weak light bulb. Boxes filled shelves, wooden crates littered the floor, and three men sat at a folding table and chairs, all silently staring at me. One of them chewed on a toothpick, while another leaned back in his chair and brought a cigarette to his lips. His suit jacket lay carelessly open, white button-up beneath, no tie.
I coughed on the smoke that twirled in the air.
“Potushi sigaretu.” Put out the cigarette.
The demand came from behind me, from the man I’d run into, his Russian words caressing my back with something equally hot and cold. It was the kind of voice that could pull a girl feet first into the dark.
Leaning forward, the smoker crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. Still trying to catch my breath, I turned around.
I was five-foot-ten with bare feet, but I only stood eye level with the top button of a black dress shirt that stretched across broad shoulders and defined arms.
I looked up.
And just before the dizziness caught me in its grasp and dragged me under, I thought he was handsome.
Handsome in the way rough palms muffle screams, the way people bow to kings, and most of all . . . the way an angel falls from grace.
viridity
(n.) naïve innocence
Russian voices, one concerned, one rough and low, crept into my subconscious. Papa only spoke fluent Russian when he had Russian guests over, but why were they in my room?
It was weird.
And rude.
I sighed, reaching to pull the sheets over my head to shut out the noise. Instead, my hand slid over the familiar feel of one of my papa’s suit jackets, wool and cashmere. But something was different. This one smelled like pine and cinnamon with a hint of cigar smoke. There was something very unfatherly about the scent, and it was what convinced me to open my eyes.
I groaned as a sharp pain shot through my skull.
“Khorosho, ty vstala,” a silver-haired man said, pulling a high-back leather chair from a large mahogany desk toward me. Square-framed glasses. White button-up. Black slacks. A cold sweat spread through me as I stared at the stethoscope around his neck.
Some people had nightmares about falling, or public nudity, or ghosts. Mine was waking up to a doctor looming over me. They were so cold and professional, with a snap of latex gloves and the reflection of blood and needles in their eyes.
The ache in my head thumped in tune with my heart as I sat up on a couch. A chill caressed my bare midsection, and I realized my ripped shirt had been partly concealed by the suit jacket. I slipped it on and pulled it closed.
Confusion clouded my thoughts as I took in the masculine, well-worn office. My breath stilled when I met eyes with a man leaning against the front of the desk. The man I ran into. The man I got a glimpse of before I fell at his feet, unconscious.
Everything came back to me.
The scarred man.
The near rape.
All I could think at that moment was, so far, Moscow really sucked.
The dark-haired Russian held my stare with a distant look of interest. I swallowed and pulled my gaze away when the doctor placed his chair next to me and sat. I eyed the briefcase beside him warily, knowing if he pulled a needle from it, I’d take my chances out on the street.
Getting a closer look, the doctor paused and tilted his head. “Ty vyglyadish’ znakomo. My ran’she ne vstrechalis’?”
Sludge stuck to my thoughts like gum. He spoke too fast for me to understand any of it.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, scrutinizing me. “Mozhesh’ skazat’ svoye imya, dorogoya?”
I
thought I heard “imya.” Was he asking for my name? I wasn’t sure, so I only blinked.
He frowned in concern. “Ty dolzhen byl otvezti yeye v bol’nitsu.”
I only recognized “bol’nitsu.” The hospital. However, I realized his words weren’t meant for me but for the only other man in the room. The one built like a brick wall, as uncomfortable as it had been to run into him.
At first glance, he looked like a gentleman, like he belonged in a CEO’s boardroom, looking down at the world through floor-to-ceiling glass. Though, if one stared longer than they should, everything about him—the way he leaned against the desk, arms crossed; the way shadows fought in his eyes; how black ink decorated his fingers—opposed it. A powerful, maybe even dangerous edge lay in the relaxed set of his shoulders.
He was war embodied, tailored in an expensive black suit, sans tie and jacket. I knew his was the one I wore now.
As if he could feel me staring, the man caught my gaze. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. Like Russian roulette. A revolver and one bullet. A single wrong blink, and I’d be dead. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as half a bottle of UV Blue and the Miami sun.
“Poprobuy po-angliyski,” he said, his eyes on mine. Try English.
The doctor’s brow lowered. “My English is no good.”
The other man pushed off the desk and came closer, dropping to his haunches in front of me. His dress pants kissed my preppy plaid ones. His black cap toe boots contrasted my white Rothy’s.
He was cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something so alive played in his eyes. Eyes I could now see weren’t black, as I originally presumed, but a very, very dark blue. Darker than the heart-shaped stones in my ears.
I didn’t know if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of hitting my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re really uncomfortable to run into.” I said it so seriously, like it was something he should be concerned about.
“My apologies.” A Russian accent and amusement touched his voice.
I stared at his lips, at the thin scar on the bottom one and the two rough words pouring out of them like vodka over ice. I wondered how he got the scar. I wondered if his voice tasted like vodka too; if it would burn my throat and warm my stomach. I felt . . . weird. My thoughts seemed to have no filter, ping-ponging against my skull like a game of pinball.
I opened my mouth to explain myself, but all that came out was, “You’re very Russian.”
He drew a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip. “You’re very American.”
The doctor shifted in his chair and spoke, but I barely heard it over this man’s presence that was so very loud. He was an eclipse, blocking the pain from my head, and, probably, the sun. Though overwhelming, it wasn’t unpleasant. It was warm. Persuasive. Worldly. A royal flush in a den of iniquity.
“Do you know your name?” he translated.
Slowly, I nodded. “Mila . . . Mila Mikhailova.”
The doctor shot a censorious look at the man in front of me, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care because his gaze remained on mine, pulling curiosity to the surface.
“What’s yours?” I asked on a shallow breath.
He smiled. “Ronan.”
His name grew heavy in the air until the doctor cleared his throat and said something I couldn’t translate.
“What day of the week is it, Mila?” Ronan asked.
“I, uh . . . Fri—?” I cut myself off when he shook his head with a hint of a smile. I tried again. “Saturday?”
The doctor made a hmm noise, apparently not impressed with this man helping me. No surprise. Doctors were no fun.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Ronan translated.
I stared at his other hand resting on his knee, at the tattoos on his fingers in between the first and second knuckles. One was a cross, another a raven. The third, a king of hearts playing card.
Ink and déjà vu.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t stop myself from touching him, from drawing an index finger down the tattooed raven. The whispered words were pushed from my depths by an irresistible force.
“Darkness there, and nothing more . . .”
The quote condensed the space between us, dipped in something as thick and dark as tar.
I was sucked back into a tunnel, reading Edgar Allan Poe under my papa’s desk, with dirt on my face and uneven bangs I’d cut myself. Papa was speaking to Ms. Marta, my childhood tutor, unaware I was near. He was concerned about my imaginary friends and lack of real ones, my introversion, and my disinterest in schoolwork.
He thought something was wrong with me.
I thought so too.
Those whispered words in the hall coiled inside me like a snake sinking its fangs in and slowly spreading poison as the years passed by. Poison that sent me on a warpath to acceptance.
Sometimes, it was the little things that made us who we were.
The heavy, empathetic look in Ronan’s eyes tightened my stomach like the click of a trigger. I didn’t expect him to understand what I said, but he did. I knew he did.
“Sleduyushchiy vopros,” Ronan said. Next question.
The doctor frowned. “U tebya yest’ sem’ya, s kotoroy ya mogu svyazat’sya?”
“How old are you, moy kotyonok?”
From the way the doctor’s eyes flared in disapproval, I realized he understood that English phrase, and it wasn’t what he’d said.
I answered, “Nineteen,” before remembering I turned twenty yesterday.
The doctor released a tense breath. “Devyatnadtsat’. Yey devyatnadtsat’.” Nineteen. She is nineteen.
Ronan didn’t look away from me. “Ya slyshal.” I heard.
I hardly listened to the exchange because I was trying to remember what “moy kotyonok” meant. My, what?
“Have you been . . . violated, Mila?” I watched the dark blue of his eyes grow black.
For a moment, his question confused me. A cloud obscured the entire scene in the alley as if it happened to someone else and I’d merely watched it unfold. It didn’t seem real, and when I thought of it, I felt nothing but mild annoyance, which probably put me in the same crazy category as my papa’s tenants.
I shook my head.
“Good.”
Just a single four-letter word, but it ballooned in the air like the most important thing in the room. His voice was so rough and soft. So composed and accented. So lenient in its delivery it slipped beneath my skin, melting the tension in my body like butter. I bet people went out of their way to listen to this man talk.
“Do you have any pain besides your head?”
I nodded, staring at him.
A smile touched his lips. “Where?”
“My side.”
Ronan rose to his full height. As he and the doctor spoke, a boy—the one I saw carrying a crate of liquor—entered the room with my duffle bag in his hands. He dropped it beside the couch and sent a glance of disgust my way.
Ronan eyed him in silent warning. The boy swallowed and turned to walk out of the room.
“Kirill would like to take a look at you, if you will let him.”
I nodded.
When Ronan headed to the door, I got to my feet, fighting a spell of dizziness at the sudden move.
“Wait,” I blurted. “Where are you going?”
He turned his head to study me with cautious eyes. “Giving you some privacy, kotyonok.”
I chewed my lip, not knowing what compelled me to ask that. I was confused. And I really didn’t like doctors.
“Please, stay.”
Kirill sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
After a pensive moment of silence, Ronan inclined his head and walked back to his desk. I was oddly comfo
rted he would stay.
Kirill stood, pulled a flashlight from his dress shirt pocket, and checked my pupils. He listened to my heart, my breathing, and examined the back of my head. My gaze kept landing on Ronan, who leaned against his desk doing nothing but watching the scene.
When Kirill spoke, I pulled my eyes to him. He must have noticed where my attention was during the exam because his expression was tight with disapproval.
“He needs you to remove the jacket.”
I loosened my grip on the lapel and shrugged it off my shoulders to the floor. A red bruise, the shape of a hand, marred my waist, which explained why my ribs ached. But what I focused on was the dried blood on my stomach. Now, I noticed it was underneath my fingernails as well.
All of the warmth inside me went ice-cold, sending prickles down the back of my neck.
I didn’t do blood.
A shaky exhale escaped me. My stomach turned. The room began to blur. I swayed, blackness tugged on my subconscious, and then it dragged me all the way under.
When I awoke, it was to a dry mouth, Kirill’s frown, and Ronan crouching next to where I lay on the couch.
Realizing I’d fainted, I closed my eyes again.
As a child, I had anxiety attacks before getting a shot or having my blood drawn. Papa used to hold me down for my vaccinations until I eventually passed out. Even now, I’d rather cast my own broken arm with duct tape than go to the doctor’s office.
Ronan held out the green can of soda Kirill handed to him. “You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
I sat up slowly, closed my blouse with one hand, and took the can from him with the other. Nobody but a small few knew about my phobia. I forced myself to watch gory horror films to get over it, but it only desensitized me to Saw movies, not real life.
“I’m not the biggest fan of blood,” I admitted.
He eyed me with curiosity, like I said something amusing. “Interesting.”
“I’m sorry. You look like a busy man, and I’m sure I’ve ruined your entire night.”
“Drink your soda, kotyonok.”
I did. The cold fizz felt good on my throat. I licked my dry lips and looked around the room, from Kirill’s frown, to a crack in the plaster walls, to the frayed carpet. It wasn’t exactly a trendy executive office.
The Darkest Temptation Page 3
