I just pulled the trigger on him.
The gun wasn’t fully loaded.
I didn’t mean to do it.
Ronan laughed humorlessly. “Guess I got really narcissistic tonight.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of his room and down the hall. In a stunned haze, I didn’t say a word—even as he yanked me down the stairs and out the front door. The icy chill in the night air wrapped around my bare skin and fought the emptiness inside. But I didn’t feel anything, not even the snow beneath my feet while he dragged me through the yard.
Ronan opened the outbuilding door and pushed me in. I only heard his movements as he padlocked the gate to Khaos’s kennel to keep me out of it and the last thing he said before he slammed the door shut behind him.
“Sleep tight, kotyonok.”
noceur
(n.) one who stays up late
I was still in my briefs, my hands trembling as I poured some vodka into a tumbler. The outbuilding where Mila was locked up pulled at every muscle in my body like a magnet. She’d been out there for less than ten minutes, and each tick of the clock tightened an invisible noose around my neck. I couldn’t shake the feeling. I’d only distracted myself by turning on all the lights in the house and barking orders at Yulia. I wanted a cup of tea. My suit needed ironing. And why the fuck was there so much yellow in my house?
“She will die out there.”
I didn’t even hear Albert enter the room until he spoke. This was how men got killed in my position, but I didn’t give a shit right now. If the cold feeling spreading in my chest was anything to go by, I was already six feet under.
“Get out,” I ordered.
“It’s below zero. She could get hypothermia in minutes.”
The words ate at my veins, but I told myself it didn’t matter to me. Mila had played me. She got under my skin, made me do shit I never did, and then she stabbed me in the goddamn back. Lashing out, I wiped everything off the bar. Glass shattered, and I saw blood dripping from my hand but didn’t feel a thing.
I turned to Albert and growled, “I told you to get the fuck out.”
“How do you think we’re going to get our revenge if she dies out there?”
“I don’t give a fuck about revenge,” I seethed before realizing what I was saying.
Albert watched me for a second. “The men think Alexei is worming his way back into the city. You might lose some of them if you don’t follow through with it.”
The last thing I wanted was another war, but it would be inevitable if I didn’t cut the head off the snake. Most of my men were Alexei’s a few years ago. I’d like to think they were loyal to me, but nobody knew with fucking criminals.
I couldn’t focus on it right now. I didn’t know how I was supposed to sleep while Mila was locked in with the dogs in subzero temps. I shouldn’t care. I didn’t care. Pushing a hand through my hair, I paced the room.
“What did she do?”
“She shot me,” I said coldly.
He took me in with a flat expression. “You look unscathed.”
“Dry fire. The chamber wasn’t loaded.” I always kept my guns loaded. Always. It was a fucking miracle, honestly. Fate or some shit.
“You’re holding her as ransom for her papa’s head. Did you think she was going to thank you?”
I didn’t know what I thought. Earlier tonight, I felt sick to my stomach when I had a barrel pressed to her head, and it had been an accident. The fact she could do the same and say I never had to see her again . . . I’d never felt so betrayed in my life. I wasn’t thinking when I dragged her out to the kennel, and now everything was sinking in, regret pounded at the walls of my chest.
A part of me knew she didn’t mean to shoot me. But the part that consumed me was the fact she thought she could just walk away from me. As the anger died, it left me feeling hollow. Fucking awful. The thought of her out there, cold . . . I couldn’t take it anymore.
Brushing Albert’s shoulder, I strode from the room and out the front door, an uneasy feeling ablaze in my stomach. My men smoked cigarettes and went silent, watching me in curiosity as I made my way to the kennel barefoot and dressed in only my briefs. The fact I couldn’t leave her out here for more than fifteen minutes was sure to give them something to talk about. They could go fuck themselves for all I cared.
When I entered the kennel and saw Mila lying beside Misha, shivering, it felt like a knife to the chest. Without a word, I lifted her in my arms and started back to the house.
Her skin was like ice against mine, but I barely felt it over the blood pounding in my veins. Knowing confusion was a sign of hypothermia, I said, “Talk to me, Mila. What day is it?”
She trembled against me. “English.”
Relief flooded me at the fact she was still coherent.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered in my neck. “I swear I didn’t mean to do it.”
Her words were a punch to the gut—especially because I believed her. I knew it before I even dragged her outside. Truthfully, I couldn’t blame her if she meant to pull the trigger; I hadn’t exactly taken her on a vacation. The fact I’d reacted so irrationally and she was the one apologizing to me made me feel like my hands were too dirty to even touch her.
I didn’t know how to handle all the pressure in my chest, so I repeated in English, “What day is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m being held captive without a phone or calendar.”
“I’ll get you a calendar,” I promised.
I carried her inside and passed Yulia in the entryway. Her cool gaze flickered with a little concern when she looked at the girl in my arms. Mila was even winning over my unfeeling housekeeper.
I set Mila on her feet in my room. I didn’t think she was hypothermic—at least not critically—but I still had to get her warm. As I pulled her tank top up, she silently lifted her arms for me. I dropped to my haunches and slid her shorts down her thighs. She braced a hand on my shoulder and lifted each leg so I could remove the fabric. A shiver wracked her, and the pressure in my throat expanded, compelling me to skim a kiss across her cold thigh and roughly say, “Izvini.” I’m sorry.
I remembered the last time I’d said that. I was six and accidentally knocked over a cup of tea on the table, which washed away the line of heroin my mother was about to snort. She backhanded me so hard I hit my head on the fridge and blacked out. It was then I learned apologies were nothing but useless words, though Mila felt differently. And she could have whatever she wanted from me right now.
The subtle look in her eyes made me feel like she saw the memory in my head before she ran a hand into my hair and urged me to stand. I tugged her onto the bed with me, where I pulled her bare chest to mine, pressing as many inches of her icy skin against my own, and covered us with the covers.
She sighed in relief at the warmth. “You know I didn’t mean to do it, don’t you?”
I knew. That was the problem. The knowledge had forced me to apologize and feel all sorts of awkward things.
I’d wanted her body.
But now, I wanted her loyalty even more.
“I know, kotyonok. Now, go to sleep.”
toska
(n.) a dull ache of the soul
I woke among black sheets and a woodsy scent that consumed every one of my senses. Ronan sat in a chair beside the bed. His eyes were lowered, and his elbows rested on his knees as he twisted my heart-shaped earring between his thumb and forefinger. A single turn of the synthetic diamond symbolized our relationship: He held my heart in the palm of his hand, bringing it out to play sometimes before putting it back in his pocket to be forgotten.
He wasn’t aware I was awake, and I took the opportunity to view his private moment. Still in nothing but his briefs, his hair glinted blue in the sunlight and was mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. He was ink and vengeance and so very human beneath cold, steel armor.
In Moscow, cartoon hearts danced in my eyes when I saw him. Now, in thi
s wintery Russian fortress, the sight of him created a sharp ache in my chest that threatened to rip me in half.
I wondered if Ronan’s conscience was responsible for him changing his mind about leaving me for dead, or simply the fact he’d have to forfeit his collateral. He’d surprised me by apologizing, though he was the one who told me apologies were worthless. Clearly, he couldn’t stomach the thought of being close to me for longer than it took to make sure I didn’t die.
The earring fell from his fingers and sparkled as it bounced off the marble floor before rolling beneath the bed. My heartache disappeared in the dark where childhood monsters lay, leaving a coldness to spread within like spiderwebs of frost.
I covered my bare breasts with the sheet and sat up on the bed. Ronan’s dark gaze lifted to mine. He didn’t look tired, but something told me he was used to sleepless nights.
“Kirill came to see you already,” he said. “You slept through it.”
I found the fact he sent for a doctor slightly interesting—nothing more. Not seeing my clothes anywhere, I wrapped the sheet around me and stood.
“You didn’t need to bother him again but thank you.”
“Thank you,” he repeated drily as if he couldn’t decide whether he was annoyed by the words or simply didn’t understand them.
“Spasibo.” I translated it to Russian for him and padded to the door, the black sheet trailing behind me like a woman in virginal mourning.
“I know what you fucking said,” he grated. “And I didn’t say you could go.”
Obediently, I stopped in the doorway and turned to him, welcoming the numb sensation within. Ronan could move me around like one of Yulia’s dolls right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. My compliance was what he’d wanted all this time, yet by the hard glitter in his eyes, it seemed he still wasn’t happy.
As he stood and strode toward me, I coasted my stare to the corner of the room—mostly because looking at him shook the composure inside. Like a splatter of paint on a white canvas.
“How do you feel?”
“Hungry,” I said simply.
Ronan made an impatient noise, now standing within arm’s reach, and demanded, “Your eyes, Mila.”
I pulled my gaze to his but stared through him. His attention warmed my face, the irritation in the air intensifying with each tick of silence. Then he reached up and ran a thumb across my cheek.
“No tears for me this morning?”
“Do you wish for my tears?” My tone conveyed I would muster up a few if he did.
His jaw tightened. An angry sound rose in his throat, then he pushed my face away and turned his back to me.
“May I go now?”
He shook his head and gritted, “You may,” before slamming the bathroom door behind him.
I bumped into Yulia in my bedroom doorway. She held out a glass of water and two ibuprofen for my wrist. As I plopped the pills in my mouth and swallowed them down with a drink, I thought I saw a flicker of softness in her gaze. Though it disappeared with a purse of her lips and the next words from her mouth.
“If she profanes herself by whoring, she shall be burned with fire.” Then she grabbed the glass from my hand, brushed past me, and headed down the hall, humming.
I was really living the dream here. No doubt Captive Barbie would be in stores next season.
After taking a hot shower, I drifted into the dining room for breakfast. Completely unconcerned with my presence, Kylie’s twin set the table between bouts of texting and delicate giggles. It was only when I poured a cup of tea that she stilled to examine me like bacteria under a microscope.
“They say you are Mikhailova,” she said very slowly.
The last thing I wanted was to make small talk, but my manners forced me to respond. “They’re correct.”
“They also say you are witch.”
I could only give a hint of a smile.
“You do not look like one.” Her unimpressed gaze slid down my wet hair and T-shirt dress. “Or like prisoner.”
“I guess they come in many shapes and forms.” I wasn’t sure if we were talking about being a witch or a prisoner at this point, though I guessed the statement worked for both.
“You seem . . .” She frowned as if she had to force the word out. “Nice. But what do they say?” She tapped her lips in thought, then her eyes lit up with a snap of her fingers. “Blood will out.”
Her excitement to use the expression watered down the insult. Apparently, she’d heard the rumors of my mother. Or my papa. I guessed I had a lot of bad blood on both sides, but it was clear she spoke of the former when her gaze slid to the hickey on my neck and she purred, “Though it seems you have already gone down that road.”
Kylie was a total buzzkill. I didn’t respond and added some sugar to my tea, which seemed to annoy her.
“You must know he does not actually vant you.”
A kernel of bitterness infiltrated my chest. It must be everyone’s mission to ruin my pleasant state of depression this morning.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I told her blandly, “but yes, I’m fully aware.”
Ronan stepped through the doorway dressed in Givenchy, and by the hint of violence in his gaze, he’d overheard the conversation. What an eavesdropper.
He sat down in his chair like any other morning. I was again invisible to Kylie as she turned her full attention to Ronan and worked on his place setting. It couldn’t be more obvious she’d waited to do it until he arrived. And, really, how many forks did he need? I buttered a piece of toast and ignored the scene while she spoke to him in Russian.
“Tea. Then get the fuck out of my house.”
My butter knife faltered for a split second. That was a, “You’re fired!” to rival The Apprentice. Kylie shot me a hostile expression as if it was my fault, quickly poured Ronan’s tea, and fled the room.
“Do you seriously let people talk to you like that?” Ronan growled, his irate gaze on me. I avoided looking at him as if he were Medusa.
“Like what?”
“Don’t play games with me.” His anger chafed my skin. “She practically called you a whore.”
The fact he was acting like he cared swept over me in an itchy wave of frustration, but if I didn’t contain all feeling, I was afraid I’d explode like Hiroshima.
“You love calling me a whore,” I returned indifferently. “And you told me to not patronize your staff. I was just doing what you told me to.”
With a growl, he gripped my face and turned it to his. I didn’t fight the hold, but I refused to meet his gaze. The eye contact would turn me to stone and then crack—right down the middle.
“If you’re trying to please me right now, you’re failing massively.”
“Just tell me what you’d like me to do in those situations, and I promise, I’ll do better next time.”
“You can start by not pretending you don’t give a fuck.” When he released me roughly, I promptly turned my attention back to my plate. I knew he was talking about last night, but I played dumb.
“I don’t care what your servants think of me.”
“I swear to God, Mila.” He stole the fork from my hand and placed it next to all five of his.
Searching through the multitude of dishes on the table, I asked, “Do you have peanut butter? I prefer peanut butter on my toast.”
“You’re going hungry until we talk about last night.”
Nope. Not having that conversation. Just the thought agitated my self-control and expanded an emotional demon in my chest that grabbed ahold of my throat. I wouldn’t give this man one more tear.
His phone rang, and while he pulled it from his pocket and hit ignore, I tipped a dish to look inside of it, frowning at the sight of honey. “Why don’t we just make a party of it and stomp on some bees for breakfast?”
“Stop. With the. Goddamn. Dishes.” He was close to throwing me out with the dogs again.
“I don’t like dry toast,” I said, continuing to peruse the
condiments. “Seriously, no peanut butter? Are you on a budget or something?”
With one calm flick of his hand, the entire twelve-seater table tipped on its side, taking down chairs in its path. Dishes, plates, and silverware slid across the wood and clattered to the marble floor. The bang rattled my bones, washing away the numbness inside of me on a hot tide of resentment.
There went my freaking breakfast.
My burning gaze slid to Ronan to see he had the audacity to sit back in his throne and straighten his jacket cuff.
“I think you’re holding a grudge, kotyonok. Not so altruistic now, are you?”
Heat cascaded down my body like an avalanche. “You’re one to talk,” I snapped and shot to my feet. “The only reason I’m here is due to one massive grudge you have with my papa.”
“Sit the fuck down.”
“You sit down!” He wasn’t even standing. He sat all composed as if he hadn’t just destroyed the room and my good mood.
Inked finger tapping the armrest, he said darkly, “Your papa is the last reason you’re still here.”
I was too unbalanced to figure out what he meant. The confusion only sparked more anger within.
“You shouldn’t have fired Kylie,” I told him coldly. “She’d appreciate your evasiveness and peach emojis more than I ever could.”
“She’s a manipulative bitch. And I didn’t like the way she was talking to you.”
“Please,” I scoffed, turning away from him. “What she said was less insulting than what you’ve said to me.”
“You want me to apologize for that too?”
I spun to face him. “I want you to let me go!”
My chest heaved in the silence that followed. Too late, I realized I was looking him in the eyes, which were blue and unwavering. I felt myself turning to stone. Cracks weaved through my resolve, splintering the anger and flooding in the thick emotion I didn’t want. The ache returned to my chest so intensely tears burned their way to the surface.
I turned to walk away from him, through the maze of chairs, but I didn’t reach the door. He grabbed my wrist and forced my back against the overturned table before bracing his hands on either side to cage me in. By the tension lining his shoulders, he was completely fed up with me.
The Darkest Temptation Page 29
