A quiet laugh escaped me even as a tear ran down my cheek. He reached through the bars and wiped it away. His knuckles were busted to match his appearance: torn-open dress shirt stained with dirt and mud. He was even missing his shoes and socks. It was such an odd sight, a miserable sound between a laugh and a sob arose.
He glanced down at my source of amusement, then chuckled. “They did not want me to hang myself with my shoelaces. Took my belt too. Grebaniye ublyudki.” Fucking bastards. Grasping the bars, he slid his gaze down my body with narrowed eyes like he was trying to see into my soul. “I thought you would be . . . different.”
He assumed he’d find me a ghost of myself, not dressed in bright yellow without a physical wound in sight.
“I’ll admit, being locked in his guest room for days on end really sucked, but other than that, it hasn’t been the worst situation for me.”
His presence exuded frustration. “Why must you always make light of things?”
“I’m not. I really haven’t been treated that poorly.”
He released a caustic sound and pushed away from the bars to pace. “You have been degraded, drugged, held captive, poisoned, and God knows what else. I would hate to see what you consider poor treatment.”
“How do you know all that?”
He cast me a dark look. “I have my ways.” Continuing to walk the perimeter of his cell, he said, “The blood thing. How did that disappear, Mila?” His anger burned like fuel against my skin.
I chewed my lip nervously. “A walk in the underworld, I suppose.”
“Which you seem to be handling well.”
It felt like he was accusing me of something. “Don’t look at me like I’m happy about these circumstances just because it rid me of my phobia. I’d rather be fainting at a mud run again in Miami than have you locked up here and my papa’s life in jeopardy.”
“Interesting you have not said anything about your own situation.”
I grew flustered. “Of course I don’t want to be a prisoner anymore.”
“You seemed so . . . comfortable”—he almost sneered the word—“with your kidnapper in the dining room.”
My throat felt thick. “It was breakfast, Ivan, not a cozy heart-to-heart.”
He made a noncommittal noise. “You know they do not call him ‘D’yavol’ for nothing, do you not?”
“I’m aware.” This conversation couldn’t be more uncomfortable if bugs were crawling beneath my skin. I never said the right thing when I was unsettled. “He doesn’t like sugar in his tea.”
Ivan shot me an aggravated expression.
“I have no misconceptions of who he is, but don’t pretend you’re a saint. You work for my papa. If you want to discuss my fear of blood and where it began, you should talk to him.”
“Your papa has never mistreated you.”
“That doesn’t mean he hasn’t hurt others.”
A bitter breath passed his lips. “Are you taking D’yavol’s side?”
“I’m not taking sides. I find you all a bit despicable.” The dry humor was supposed to lighten the mood, but Ivan didn’t find it funny. Unable to handle the grave tension rolling off him, I announced, “Maybe I could find a key to your cell.” I wondered if Ronan had a doggy guard around here with the key in its mouth like in Pirates of the Caribbean.
“I would ask if he has touched you, but I already know the answer. Out of all the men in Moscow, you had to go and fuck him?”
His words chafed me raw. Had he watched the video? The thought made me sick, so in an effort to hold down the nausea, I ignored the statement. “Maybe with the right leverage, we can pop this door right off.” I glanced around in an attempt to find something useful.
“How could you not see through him, Mila? I thought you were smarter than that.”
A girl could only be called an idiot so many times. I halted my search as heat ran up my neck.
“You know what? Maybe I wouldn’t have been so stupid if you and Papa didn’t shelter me my entire life.” Sarcasm took over. “I’m sure college has a course called ‘How to Not Fuck Mobsters.’ If only I was allowed to attend . . .”
“This is not a joke.”
“I’m not laughing. I might have made a mistake, but so did you and my papa by not telling me the truth. If someone hadn’t killed that boy, none of this would be happening.”
“You are just going to believe everything D’yavol tells you?”
“My only other option is to believe someone who’s lied to me for years. The pickings are looking a little slim. Is there a third party nearby I can ask?”
“There is no need for a third party. You should stand with your papa. With me.” He practically seethed.
The thing was, I wanted to be loyal. I wanted an easy route to take; to believe my papa was the lesser of two evils. But now, all I could see when I thought of my father was a mutilated boy and a woman bleeding out on our library floor. When I closed my eyes and thought of the other evil . . . my stance was too conflicted to comprehend.
Ivan must have seen the uncertainty behind my eyes, and it angered him. His jaw tightened. He stepped toward me, flicking a glance behind me, to a high point in the room. When his gaze slid back to mine, something underhanded, almost devious, flickered within. It was the first time I’d seen that kind of darkness in him, and the sight raised the hair on the back of my neck.
“Be honest with me. He has not hurt you?”
I didn’t understand where this was going, but my stomach tilted with the feeling I wouldn’t like the end result.
Uneasily, I shook my head.
“And he will not?” He moved closer—as close as the bars would allow. My hands grew clammy; my heart beat fast. It felt like Ronan was standing behind me and that I was sandwiched between two men on a battlefield who had every intention of killing each other. I didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire, but I realized then, I already had.
“Ivan . . . I—”
“Answer the question.”
The indecision tore me in half. My gut told me Ronan wouldn’t hurt me physically, but it also braced for a flood that would wash me away. I didn’t want to leave Ivan to worry about me, so even though I didn’t wholly believe it, I whispered, “No.”
Ivan ran a thumb across my cheek. The suggestion in the touch expanded unease in my stomach, the caress not evoking a sliver of the heat certain inked fingers did. Why couldn’t this burn? Why couldn’t I want this?
“If I am going to die,” he said with a dark form of amusement, “I may as well go out with a bang.”
I didn’t have time to process the statement before he grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my lips to his between the bars. Shock kept my mouth uncompromising for a second, but beneath his encouraging pressure, my lips softened and complied.
His tongue slid into my mouth, and I met it with my own, praying for the heat, the ache, the desperation I should feel—needed to feel. Warmth spread in my stomach, convincing me to kiss him harder and skim my hands over his shoulders and into his hair. He groaned and grasped my waist, pulling me against the cool bars.
Ivan’s fingers exuded warmth as they traveled down my body to my ass, but the contact didn’t ignite. The embrace was an ember in a breeze, unable to go up in flames without gasoline.
He tilted my head with the other hand to deepen the kiss, and I tasted a familiar hint of cinnamon. They chewed the same type of gum. They had history. The animosity between them was personal. I wondered how well they knew each other; if they’d shared each other’s secrets on the streets of Moscow or in a cell much like this one.
When he pulled away, my breath was soft and stable, the pressure of his mouth fading to nothing but memory. Loyalty told me this was where I belonged—in the embrace of a man I’d shared so much with—but my soul begged for something else; for a fire that lit without fuel; for Versace, tanzanite, and hands that stole my breath. My body was underwhelmed, though inside, everything was crashing down.
If
I could long for the devil, it meant I had some darkness in me too.
oenomel
(n.) something combining strength with sweetness
I should be questioning my life choices, searching for a key to Ivan’s cell, or doing anything remotely constructive. Instead, I sat in the drawing room and watched the sun sink below the horizon with the Bible on my lap. The book was in Russian and was therefore incomprehensible, but the words didn’t matter. It was the divine support I needed—similar to a crucifix or a garlic necklace.
Je hais Madame Richie. Tu hais Madame Richie. Nous haïssons Madame Richie. I was beginning to hate the fortune-teller more each day. I put all the blame on her for setting something in motion I couldn’t stop. I would take credit for my stupidity, but she needed to fess up to the spell she’d put on me to enjoy asphyxiation and the touch of darkness. Lack of college education notwithstanding, I knew nobody in their right mind longed for less oxygen.
The front door shut quietly, but it may as well have been slammed, the soft click sending an edgy vibration to the tips of my fingers. It couldn’t be any clearer who just came inside if a marching band preceded him. The energy he carried in rivaled the insidious screech in horror films as a glinting knife stabbed at its victim.
Ronan must have had a bad day at work.
Stomach clenching, I picked up the book, opened it to a random page, and pretended to devoutly read. My back was to the doorway, but I didn’t need to see it to know he’d silently entered the room. His presence settled over me like a blanket of slithering vipers: black, smooth, and threatening to bite.
I wondered if Moscow ran out of virgins to steal. I didn’t count given I was already stolen. And a slut at heart.
Jokes aside, I was a little concerned for my welfare at this point.
I felt Ronan move to the couch opposite me and take a seat. It was a battle to keep my gaze on the illegible Cyrillic letters, but I wasn’t prepared to acknowledge him yet. Disregarding the humiliation of this morning that raised a shameful flush to my skin, the suffocating tension he emanated was about as comfortable as jumping into a fire.
I realized he must know I went into his precious dungeon, and he was not happy about it. Yulia probably saw me at it with the eyes on the back of her head.
If Ronan didn’t want me in the basement, he should have put a lock on the door.
Chink . . . click. The sound broke the silence and squeezed the pulse point in my throat. My mind was a mess trying to decipher the product of the noise, but I forced myself to nonchalantly flip a page.
Ronan knew I couldn’t read Russian, yet he had nothing to say about the ridiculous, treasonable book in my hands. The room remained silent except for the incessant noise that frayed the edges of my nerves.
Chink . . . click.
I imagined this was worse than Chinese water torture. I suddenly knew he would continue whatever game this was for hours and that I would die in one. I gave in, flicked my gaze to him, and asked, “Do you need something?”
Elbows braced on his knees, his eyes held steady on a Zippo lighter in his hand, which he opened and closed. His demeanor was so cold a chill spread through me.
“Tell me why you are here.” His accent grated like sandpaper, but what made me tighten my grip on the Bible was the fact the demand was spoken in the voice of D’yavol—the immortal man who ruled Moscow and probably killed American cheerleaders for sport.
His order was vague, but somehow, I knew what he wanted. As always, my spirit ached to fight him, though a voice in the back of my mind cautioned me. I was no longer the only one he could crush beneath his expensive boot.
“I’m collateral.”
Chink. “Whose collateral?” Click.
I swallowed. “Yours.”
“Who else’s?”
The powerplay was beginning to blister. I may as well be on my knees at his feet just so he could reject me again. Je ne suis pas fière. Tu n’es pas fière. Nous ne sommes pas fières. I am not prideful. You are not prideful. We are not prideful.
With a shallow breath, I forced, “Just yours.”
“Just mine.” The words froze to ice, and his eyes finally lifted to mine, an immoral matte black. “Your misery, your attention, your body—all mine.” The caustic words settled on my skin, slowing each inhale. “I’m beginning to think I need to prove it to you.”
My heart plummeted when I understood what this was about. The kiss. A recollection came back, of Ivan looking at something behind me before he made his move.
Ronan and his secret cameras.
I was nothing but a chess piece being played in their vengeful game. My feelings didn’t matter. They never had. Heat washed up my back as resentment stirred, obliterating all traces of self-preservation.
I slapped the book beside me on the couch and stood. “I’m really not interested right now, but maybe tomorrow.”
The growl from deep in his chest resounded in my ears before he shot to his feet and flipped the coffee table over. The antique hit the wall and cracked along with my composure. Fine ornaments went flying, shattered on the floor, and skidded across the marble.
And he said I had a temper.
Heart in my throat, I held my ground and his stare. He took advantage of the now clear space between us to stride toward me, an unstable violence raging in his eyes.
Something drew him to a halt. He exhaled and ran a hand down his chest in such a refined way it was like he believed he was the composed one before grating, “Go to your room before I do something I’ll regret.”
A second ago, that was exactly where I planned to go, though since he’d demanded it, my room was now the last place I wanted to be. He’d probably have Yulia lock the door behind me, and if I had to endure another minute of solitude, I’d explode into yellow confetti.
He was giving me an out I should take, but my feet refused to move even as my mind told me to hightail it out of there. So many conflicting feelings tangled within, shoving my system off-kilter. Ivan had used me to get one over on his enemy. Ronan had betrayed, abducted, rejected, and confused me. I stared at him, digging my nails into my palms as the chaos inside begged for an outlet.
His eyes hardened, and, in a menacing tone, he threatened, “Go.”
I was warned, so, in essence, I had no excuse for what poured out of my mouth. On second thought, I blamed Madame Richie.
“Bite me.”
He watched me for a second that felt like an eternity, and then, a cruel, disbelieving chuckle escaped him, showing off sharp incisors. After wiping the mirthless laugh away with a hand, he gritted, “Don’t say you didn’t ask for it, kotyonok.”
In one stride, he grabbed the nape of my neck and pulled my mouth to his. The rough action stole my breath, which escaped in a hiss of pain when he bit down hard on my bottom lip. But as he soothed the sting with a soft lap of his tongue, a flame ignited, expanding liquid fire between my legs.
If the kiss was a chess game, I was the bespectacled novice. And he was the cheater who wiped the board clean and fucked me on top of it.
My mind disliked this man with a passion right now. I tried to shove him away, to turn my mouth from his, but the iron grip on my nape didn’t relent. My body held a different stance. It inhaled the heat of his, begging for more force, more intensity, more friction—so much more. The hot press of his lips and the taste of cinnamon sent a desperate hum through my blood, drawing me so close to the edge a cold sweat battled the inferno within. He slid his tongue against mine, creating a heavy ache in my core that scattered all thoughts for a feverish second.
Breath ragged, the struggle slowed, and my hands stilled on his chest. Vengeance bled into his kiss, which was soft yet furious and somehow cold—just like the look in his eyes before he left me on my knees this morning. He didn’t want me then. He only wanted me now to prove a point: I was his insurance, and only he could fuck with me.
Just as he thought the fight in me had faded, I bit down on his bottom lip so hard I tasted blo
od and threw my knee up. He evaded the hit to his groin with a growl and shoved me away from him. I caught my footing, the lack of his body heat making me cold.
“Where’s the passion you gave Ivan, kotyonok?” he asked harshly, wiping blood from his lip with a thumb. “I won’t believe you have reservations about kissing two men on the same day.”
A knot of anger stretched in my chest, forcing the insult from me. “The only reservation I have is kissing you.”
The next second of silence suffocated me, his eyes not leaving mine while a muscle ticked in his jaw. “I guess we’re both narcissistic then.”
Knowing his twisted definition of “lucky,” I swallowed and watched him warily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A sinful glint stole the heat from his eyes, the words cool and apathetic. “I’ve never been one to mix kissing and fucking.” The hiss of his Montblanc belt sliding through its loops dropped my stomach like a lead weight.
He didn’t intend for tonight to end with a cold shower.
Heart pounding like a racehorse’s hooves on dirt, I backed up until I bumped into the couch. The metal buckle hit the floor with a clank, stretching my skin taut. I told myself to stay strong and retain my dignity at all costs, but when he took a single step in my direction, I blurted, “I’m a virgin.”
He didn’t even consider it before laughing humorlessly. “You’re such a fucking liar.”
I shouldn’t have cried wolf so many times. Now, it was going to screw me over—literally.
“It takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” My voice shook. Each step he took toward me, I mimicked in the opposite direction until I stood behind the couch, a simple piece of furniture the only divider between us.
“Mm. We don’t know each other that well yet, but we will.” A shattered piece of porcelain crunched beneath his boot.
“You act like it will be memorable for me,” I retorted, forced to the front of the couch when he stepped around it.
The Darkest Temptation Page 23
