I stopped at the other end of the table with every intention of sitting as far from him as I could manage, though, with a cool gaze, Ronan pushed out the chair next to him with his foot.
What a grand gentleman.
I’d rather try the two-story jump from my window than sit next to him, but pride wouldn’t allow me to reveal the shake in my veins. So I moved toward him like I did it every day; like he didn’t shoot a man in the head in the same room days ago. I sat, the only sounds the soft scrape of my chair against the marble and Ronan’s intrusive presence.
A dark-haired girl close to my age entered the room and quietly set fine china dishes on the table in front of us. Bliny. Russian pancakes served with fresh jam—my favorite meal Borya prepared at home in vegan fashion.
My stomach churned at the idea of forcing it down, but I would try. I wouldn’t survive in this world if I couldn’t adjust, and I refused to let it eat me alive.
I forked a blin and dropped it onto my plate. Ronan only sat back in his chair, the sparkle of my earring twirling between his fingers while he watched me add jam to the top. Cutting into a pancake, I halted when he still didn’t move.
“Sorry, did you want to say grace first?”
He was amused. “It’s not exactly a routine of mine, but if you want to, I’ll listen.”
“So sure you won’t go up in flames?”
“Sounds like you’re counting on it.”
Catching Yulia’s gaze as she stepped into the room to water a plant near the window, I said, “Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
Another humph.
I turned my eyes back to the table to see Ronan watching me intensely. “Don’t patronize my staff, kotyonok.”
With a sense of annoyance, it felt like I was properly censured. “Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll call you whatever I want.”
I met his eyes with bitterness. “Does it make you feel big and strong to push me around?”
“No. It makes me hard.”
He held my gaze with purpose and “hard” still in the air. I refused to show that his crassness affected me.
“I’m curious, is your gentlemanliness an innate behavior, or did you take lessons?”
He slipped my earring into his pocket and rested an arm on his throne. “And if I did? You gonna write them a bad review on Yelp?”
“I’m sure Satan’s Institute for Local Psychos has enough of them.”
He ran a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip, a rough chuckle escaping him. When he laughed, he didn’t appear as threatening. One could never say he looked like a normal man, but something altogether more devious and timeless.
When the laugh faded, caressing every inch of my body, he asked, “Did you sleep well?”
Of course not. I was covered in blood and guilt.
I was sure Ronan slept like a baby.
Stabbing a piece of blin, I said sweetly, “Great. Thank you.”
“You’re a pathetic liar.”
“We can’t all be as underhanded as you, can we?” The pancake tasted like a mouthful of dirt. “Tell me how long you’re going to keep me here.”
The flare of his eyes expressed he didn’t like me telling him what to do. He ran a finger around the rim of his teacup, eliciting a haunting ring that rose the hair on the back of my neck.
“There has to be an expiration date to this little soirée.”
His concentrated gaze held mine, and that ring continued and continued, fraying the edges of my nerves. Apparently, he was only going to stare at me like I was a worthless plebeian. Every second he remained silent, the longer my heartbeats stretched until I couldn’t handle the tension. I was approaching dangerous territory, edging near a viper’s nest just to see how close I could go before I got bit, but hatred and a reckless sense of bravery spurred me on.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” I shrugged a shoulder, bringing my teacup to my lips. “I bet Albert’s lurking around here somewhere. He may not be a Chatty Cathy, but I’m sure I can figure out a way to get him to talk.”
I knew I’d gone too far even before his hand lashed out, grabbed me by the throat, and pulled me in. The cup slipped from my fingers, and hot tea spilled down my dress, but I felt nothing except the flight of the pulse beneath his grip as the ring from his teacup faded.
“Don’t manipulate me,” he growled.
I swallowed at the restraint in his grip. He could crush my windpipe if he wanted to. The insinuation behind the warning squeeze that shortened my air supply conveyed he was allowing me to breathe, to live, and I should be thankful.
Head tilted to the ceiling, my eyes held his, expressing every ounce of resentment inside. But discomfort blended into something strange and electric when his thumb slid down the side of my neck. The action dulled the toxic heat in the air, smothering it with a simple soft touch.
“So ready to go home . . . What’s waiting for you, kotyonok?”
A heavy diamond on my finger and a monotonous life behind golden gates that glimmered beneath a Floridian sun. In truth, without my papa, I had nothing of worth in Miami, but I refused to let this man know that.
The words escaped between pants. “My life.”
“This is your life now.” His voice lowered to a dangerous level. “I’ll release you when I’m finished with you—no sooner.”
We only breathed in each other’s fury for a few seconds before he freed me. I fought to not rub my throat and remove the heat his hand left behind. Frozen in fading adrenaline, I watched him bring a teacup to his mouth. Tattooed fingers and fine china. It felt like I was Persephone dining with Hades, except the goddess came to love the ruler of the underworld.
And this wasn’t a divine romance.
“The sooner I tire of your presence, the sooner you’ll get to say goodbye to your papa. For his sake, I would do a better job of appeasing me.”
A naked jaunt through Chernobyl sounded better than “appeasing” this man.
My dress was soaked, my neck was probably red, and my temples ached from the hatred in my eyes. A well-balanced person would take pity on me and release me from this twisted tea party. Unfortunately, Ronan was as rational as Mr. Hyde.
“Eat.”
Somehow, I found an appetite—or just enough pride to pretend so. The devil sat back in his chair in Givenchy, an iPhone in hand, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was playing a game. I could only imagine it was a twisted version of Pac-Man, but instead of dots, his emoji ate up souls.
“If you’re finished, Yulia will escort you to your room.”
On cue, she appeared in the doorway, dispensing all doubt the walls of this house were alive, fueled by Russian tea and black magic.
I pushed my chair back and dutifully followed Yulia to my room, where, with a jingle of keys like a headmistress, she locked me in my cage.
sapiosexual
(n.) one who is attracted to or aroused by intelligence in others
Ronan and I did the same dance for three days.
We ate breakfast together like a couple with serious marital problems, then he went to Moscow to manipulate and maim most likely, and I was escorted back to my room.
In an effort to earn some freedom and a way out of this nightmare, I behaved as best as my mouth would allow even though I wanted to scream inside.
Ronan, Yulia, and the silent maid were the only faces I saw day in and out, and it was starting to mess with my head. I didn’t know when the shift happened, but I began to look forward to breakfast if only to escape the mind-eating boredom.
On the third morning, I came to a realization.
“I know what you’re doing,” I announced at the dining table.
Ronan lifted his gaze from the iPhone that was probably glued to his hand. If “Tasty!” and “Delicious!” in a deep Candy Crush voice weren’t coming from the stupid device, it constantly pinged with texts and emails.
A brow rose. “And what am I doing?”
“You’re trying to Stoc
kholm syndrome me.”
I thought he wanted to laugh. “I don’t think that’s a verb.”
“Like I need grammar advice from someone who uses ‘fuck’ as a noun, verb, and adverb in a single sentence.”
“Fuck is versatile.”
“Not that versatile.”
The full weight of his gaze could rival a shock wave. “When I fuck you, kotyonok, I promise, you’ll use ‘fuck’ in more ways than I ever fucking have.”
Turned inside out by his words and the intensity in his stare, it became a battle not to avert my gaze or shift in my seat. The crass promise slowed my breath, but what sent an annoying surge of liquid heat to the pit of my stomach was the fact he knew how to use each part of speech properly. He even got the adverb right.
“Versatile enough for you?” he asked.
His expression spoke volumes.
Ronan: 1
Mila: 0
Unable to give it up, I muttered, “The ‘fucking’ was a little gratuitous.”
“Thought you weren’t a sore loser.”
I silently mused on his response. I’d never been a competitive person, but every conversation with Ronan seemed like a fight I needed to win. Maybe being kidnapped by a Russian mobster changed a girl, or maybe I just wanted to peel back the edges of his skin to reveal the monster beneath. It wasn’t fair he could cloak himself so easily in a handsome face and designer suits.
He stood, slipped his phone into his pocket, and buttoned his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kotyonok.” Then he walked out of the room without another word, leaving me alone once again, as if I was a mere fly of a thought swallowed whole by his plans for world domination.
He never answered my question, but his indifference and retreat invoked the idea I was wrong; that planning to manipulate my body and soul had never crossed his mind. Now, I felt ridiculous for coming to that conclusion. If he wanted to sleep with me so much, he could just take it. He wasn’t exactly anyone’s definition of a soft-handed man. Maybe he didn’t care enough to force the issue. Maybe these morning “dates” satisfied his desire for a side of ridicule with his breakfast.
I twirled my spoon in the bowl of porridge he didn’t force me to eat. An uneasy feeling swelled in my stomach. Disgustingly, I wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact Ronan might be losing interest in me or that the remaining hours of my papa’s life were ticking down on the timeclock.
The most revolting part of the scenario didn’t have to do with either of those things. As Ronan’s back disappeared from view, taking his “fucks” and the smell of the forest with him, a sense of loneliness took his place—a solitude Yulia’s presence couldn’t fill.
“Je le hais. Tu le hais. Nous le haïssons.” I hate him. You hate him. We hate him. I stared at the ceiling, wearily conjugating French verbs in the most amusing way I could muster.
The door opened, and, after a short pause filled by her bending down to pick the broken doorknob up off the floor, Yulia said, “This is house. Not barn.”
I believed she was talking about the hour I spent banging on the painfully solid door yelling, “LET ME OUT!” at five a.m. this morning. But who knew? In this house, she could be referring to my speaking French.
Ignoring her, I recited with zero enthusiasm, “Je le déteste. Tu le détestes. Nous le détestons.” I detest him. You detest him. We detest him.
A stern face entered my view of the ceiling. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m on my period,” I explained.
Her nose wrinkled like I was a singular and disgusting creature, then she disappeared from the room for a moment, making sure to dead bolt the door behind her, before returning with a box of tampons she dropped on my face.
“Ow,” I complained, rubbing my forehead.
She snickered.
“Witch,” I groused.
“Bitch.”
Today was the worst day for the cramps to creep up on me. This morning, I decided I would do anything to get out of this room: rein in the sarcasm, sell my soul, blow the devil—you name it. One more day of this madness, and I’d end up as crazy as Renfield in Dracula. I was already nocturnal and questioning my veganism. Tomorrow, I’d be eating bugs.
My uterus punishing me for not getting knocked up this month was going to make controlling my mouth much more difficult. I’d never admitted to being perfect, but on my period? I was far, far from it.
“You are late for breakfast, devushka.”
“Just let me die here in peace.”
“I like this room. Go die downstairs.”
Ten minutes later, I entered the dining room in a blouse the color of the sun and a flowy skirt with Yulia on my heels. She cast an apologetic look at Ronan for delivering me late. I wouldn’t blink if she bowed to him on her way out.
He merely nodded in acknowledgment, phone to his ear. I headed to my seat and loaded my plate with fruit. Ronan smiled at what whoever was on the other end of the line said. Probably Nadia. I felt a little sorry for her but also believed she had the personality of a goat-headed statue.
Lazily responding in Russian, Ronan watched me add three sugar cubes to my hot cup of tea. I had a bitter taste in my mouth, and only something sickly-sweet could wash it away.
Finally, he hung up, using an endearing and annoying goodbye, before shrouding the room in quiet. After a moment, he said, “If you wanted a cup of diabetes, you only had to ask.”
I bit the automatic retort back. Do you think two would be enough to end my time here with you? Instead, I said cordially, “I’m good. Thank you.”
He sat back, something close to amusement passing through his eyes. “Late night or early morning?” The insinuation was clear: he’d heard my shouting and banging on the door, and he’d ignored me.
Je suis calme. Tu es calme. Nous sommes calmes. I am calm. You are calm. We are calm.
“I just find it hard to sleep with all the excitement.” Sarcasm was a sneaky bitch who often got the best of me.
“I wasn’t aware my guest room contained such great entertainment.” His eyes glinted. “Well . . . aside from what I left for you to watch at least. I know it’s good TV, but you should branch out and try a sitcom every once in a while.”
We both knew he’d rigged that TV so I couldn’t watch anything but endless porn. A surge of coldness washed over my skin while I tried to force the rising lava down. I refused to go back to that room. He’d have to drag me kicking and screaming, and that was exactly what he would do unless I appeased him.
“I’m not talking about the TV.” Taking a sip of the hot sugar in my cup, I relished the burn on my tongue. I had no idea what I was going to come up with to explain the earlier sarcastic slip, so words simply started to tumble out. “It’s just the . . . atmosphere here . . .” My gaze caught Yulia in the hall who was humming and combing the hair of a porcelain doll that sat on a table of ornaments. I pulled my attention back to Ronan and forced a smile. “It’s just so romantic. A Russian winter wonderland, very sturdy medieval doors, and an age gap. I’m living in a Disney movie.”
After watching me for a heavy second, he laughed, deep and sincere, like he couldn’t believe what just came out of my mouth. Humor slid into his words. “I have the feeling you’re not being completely sincere with me right now.”
“I have no idea what gave you that impression.”
I planned to plead my case for a longer leash at the end of breakfast, but if he continued to sit there and watch me without touching his plate, this meal could last hours. It would be a struggle to last ten minutes without earning his displeasure, and somehow, the keen bastard knew it. He was going to drag this out as painfully as possible.
I tried to shut out his invasive presence, but his gaze and silence were living beings—two little demons that sat on each of my shoulders.
Je l’ignore. Tu l’ignores. Nous l’ignorons. I ignore him. You ignore him. We ignore him.
“I’m thirsty, kotyonok.”
Fork halfway to my lips,
I stilled at the languid tenor in his voice that practically demanded I serve him. After a disbelieving beat ticked by, I allowed my gaze to travel to the lazy bastard, who lounged in his chair and, I knew from experience, had full use of both of his hands.
“Sloth is a sin,” I said, my gaze narrowed.
“So is pride,” he returned. “In fact, it’s believed to be the deadliest of them all.”
Ugh. Now I had to serve him, or I was the greater sinner. I hated whoever took the time to teach this man the Bible.
I dropped my fork and forced a smile. “Tea or water, D’yavol?”
Elbow resting on the arm of his chair, he ran a thumb across his jaw like he was thinking about it. A hint of pleasure sparkled in his eyes at the demeaning situation he’d put me in.
My bare foot began to tap impatiently beneath the table, temper rising higher each second he took to make up his damn mind. His boot gently came down on my foot to halt the tapping.
“Tea.”
Pouring him a cup, I asked, “Sugar?”
“No.”
With a plop, the sugar cube sank to the bottom of his cup, and I slid it to him with the hope he was allergic. Just as I picked my fork back up, he opened his mouth again.
“Now that I think about it, water would be better.”
My restraint snapped, and the first words to enter my mind escaped. “Why are you the way that you are?”
The smallest flicker of humor arose, but at the disrespectful tone, his eyes darkened, and that expensive boot pressed a little harder on my foot.
“You’re narcissistic I find you amusing.”
While that sentence wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, it hit its mark and filled the space between us with a silent awareness. He was mocking my play on “lucky” from our earlier conversation. The devil understood the workings of my chaotic mind so well, I wasn’t sure what it said about me.
A sense of closeness constricted my throat, and I pulled my foot out from underneath his boot. I’d most assuredly screwed my chances of gaining any freedom today, and I’d lost the humility to beg for it. I needed to cut my losses before I felt the sharp bite of fangs.
The Darkest Temptation Page 17
