Dirty

by Cole, Stevie J.

  After the shower, I step into the bedroom to find a dress laid out on the bed. Next to it lays a bandage for my leg. Ah, Ronan Cole, ever in need of absolute control.

  By the time I wrap my leg and get dressed, it's nearly seven. Sighing, I go downstairs and, without consciously making the decision, I find myself standing in his office doorway. He's sitting at his desk, turned away from the doorway with the phone pressed to his ear. I watch the way his jaw tenses before he snaps out a word in Russian and hangs up. Twisting in his chair, he places the phone on the desk, pausing when he spots me. His gaze slowly drags over my body, and a small smile pulls at his lips.

  "Ronan."

  He grabs a cigar from the ashtray and relights it as he pushes to his feet and rounds the desk. Without a word, he takes me by the arm and leads me from the office to the lavish dining room. The cherry scent of smoke drifts around us, reminding me so entirely of him and only him. Like a gentleman, he pulls out my chair before sitting at the head of the table to my left.

  "How did you dispose of the body?" He takes his napkin and unfolds it.

  "I sent the car into an abandoned mine where it exploded." I press my hand to my chest. "So tragic."

  His cold eyes stare through me, studying me, and I wonder what he's thinking. If he's wishing to kill me. Kiss me. Keep me...

  The servants bring two plates into the room and place them on the table. I glance at the rare steak in front of me, mesmerized by the crimson juices creeping across the white china. We sit in silence as we eat, though I can feel his eyes on me. Always watching like a collector with a prized possession, he studies me. When I finish, I set my knife and fork down on my plate and pick up my glass of wine.

  A servant bustles into the room, placing a glass of brandy in front of Ronan before removing our plates. He lifts the glass to his lips, staring over the rim at me. The silence presses in on me until his lips quirk in the hint of a smile and he crooks a finger to motion me over. Narrowing my eyes, curiosity gets the better of me and I slowly push to my feet. I still feel like I'm standing in quicksand with him, sinking with every passing minute, unsure whether I'll drown or he'll pull me out. I round the table and stop beside him. His gaze rakes over my body slowly and my stomach tightens in anticipation.

  He pats the table in front of him. "Sit, krasivaya."

  I slide onto the polished surface of the table, crossing one leg over the other. Smirking, he forces my legs apart until he's sitting between them. I roll my eyes on a sigh. "So, now everyone is dead..."

  His eyes flash with pride as he picks up his glass. "And you're alive."

  I fight a smile. "I am. Was that also part of your grand plan, Russian?"

  "No." He takes another sip of his brandy, his gaze roaming over me. "But I do like surprises." His eyes flicker with the promise of danger, destruction. His hand lands on my leg and he pushes my dress up until his fingers brush the bandage at the top of my thigh.

  "So, you've killed the Prime Minister, and the President, what now?" I can't say I'm not curious, this level of planning and manipulation...it has to have an important purpose, a greater scheme.

  A sinister, depraved smile crosses his lips. "Power." He places his drink on the table and stands, pressing between my spread thighs. His thumb drags along my bottom lip and he leans in until his mouth brushes my throat. "Money. Blood." The air between us crackles and my chest tightens as my pulse skitters slightly. A shiver tears up my arm as his warm breath caresses my skin.

  "You have all that," I whisper. "And where do I fit in your quest for blood and power?" I lift my hand and slowly trail my finger down his chest, leaning into him. "Do you still want to watch me bleed?"

  His lips curl slightly, promising dark and sensual things. He suddenly grips my jaw. Hard. Heat engulfs my body as he forces my head back and kisses me, hammering against the iron clad walls I've built to keep my enemies out. They tremble in his wake, cracking under the pressure. My lips part, inviting in his darkness, welcoming his depravity. He tastes of brandy and cigar smoke and everything I should hate. My craving for him ratchets. An addict alone may see the error of their ways, but two addicts together, well, such an addiction may just seem rational. He breaks away from me and presses his forehead against mine.

  This is complicated. He makes everything so complicated. Everything is contorted until I don't know which way is up. Enemies look like lovers and depraved acts become sick cravings.

  "Why am I still here, Ronan?" I breathe. I have to know.

  "I wanted you alive..." His lips brush against my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair. "I wanted you dead. I couldn't choose." He kisses below my ear. "So I let fate decide."

  "So, I'm to just stay here indefinitely—as your captive?" I ask. We both know the situation has changed. I should be dead, and the very fact that he placed a loaded gun to my head suggests that whatever possible need he had for me has elapsed. And so here we are, in this limbo. Captor and captive, hunter and prey—but I am no man's prey.

  "Hmph." He drags a finger over my lips. There's lust and and hate simmering in his ice-blue eyes, and I find myself mesmerized.

  "Ronan..."

  "If it would make you feel better to believe you are only here due to force..."

  "Does that mean I could leave if I chose to?"

  All he does is smile and nod toward the door. "You're welcome to find out."

  Narrowing my eyes, I push to my feet and bring my chest against his. The power that surrounds him crackles through the air, choking me until he seems like the oxygen I need to breathe. "You'd let me go?"

  "I didn't say that." His stubble scratches my face as his lips skim my throat.

  "Then, I'm still your captive," I say, my voice hitching.

  "No, you're mine." His hold on my hair tightens possessively. "There's a difference."

  I look up and his red-hot gaze crashes into mine. Distanced and yet ruthlessly possessive. "There is a difference," I whisper. Something teases the edge of my mind; possibilities, cravings, a lust so intense it burns me from the inside out, and there's a moment where I can hear nothing but the pounding of my pulse, feel nothing but him. His presence sears over me like my beloved fire, all-consuming and destructive. He slowly inches toward me until his lips are only a whisper from my own. "I promise," he smiles against my lips, "you'll like it, little kitty."

  I blink, subconsciously swaying towards him. A small voice in the back of my mind screams at me to fight it, to see him for what he is: my enemy, a monster, the man who would kill me. What happens when we crave the very thing that is the most dangerous to us? Ronan is danger and adrenaline and raw power. I both hate and love this twisted pull he has over me. The thing is, he's right. I will like it. I'll stand in the fire and bask in the heat as it burns me. That is what he does to me. And so here we are again, dancing around the flames, beckoning and daring each other. Only this time it's changed. This feels...different. Volatile. Still life threatening, but for entirely new reasons. The realization that it can't be different dawns on me, because if Ronan isn't my enemy, then what is he? People like he and I... we fight, we draw blood, we go to war. There is nothing else. He is the Russian who kidnapped me and stole my cartel. I am the girl he took and used as a pawn, right up until only a few hours ago he put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. These...feelings are misplaced and they will get me killed with a man like him. I've always played Ronan's game, but this is an entirely new game and I'm suddenly very unsure that I can win.

  "I need..." I step around him, edging toward the door. He cocks a brow while his eyes set on me like a predator watching retreating prey. "I need to go." I try and force my voice to remain steady.

  "You may leave," he says as though he's granting permission. And maybe he is. I whirl around and hurry from the room, my heels clicking rhythmically over the marble floors as I do something I've never done: run away from Ronan Cole.

  3

  Ronan

  The crackle and heat of the roaring fire soot
he my tense muscles when I step into my office.

  I light a cigar, grabbing my laptop as I take a seat in front of the hearth. She ran away from me. I smile at the thought.

  Terrified. Powerless...or so she thinks.

  When I open the computer, I go straight to the security camera in her room. She's staring out the window. Still. Sullen. I smell her fear like blood in the water and I thrive on it. She has no idea what I'm doing—really, for the first time in my life, neither do I. And I must say, the sudden thrill of it is rather intoxicating. For half an hour, she stands at that window, and I wonder what she is thinking about. I would love nothing more than to pluck each angry, fear-riddled idea from her mind and devour it like a fine wine.

  There's a knock at my office door. The hinges groan when it's pushed open, but I don't turn around. I keep watching Camilla. Sad little Camilla angry about being owned by the Big Bad Wolf—

  "Ronan?" Igor calls from the doorway.

  "What is it?"

  "Andre is here to see you."

  "Of course he is. Everyone is so needy these days." I grab my cigar and set the computer down as I push up from my seat and head to the hallway.

  "He's in the sitting room," Igor says.

  When I step into the room I find Andre seated on the sofa, his hands clasped in his lap. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" I ask.

  One of his thick brows twitch. "Derivichi is dead." He grins like a shark.

  "Yes..." I go to the sideboard and pour a glass of whisky. "As you knew would happen."

  "Everything is in motion then?"

  I don't look back at him, simply sigh. The naivety of people does annoy me to no end. "Please tell me you are not questioning my ability?"

  "No," he's quick to respond, clearing his throat with a nervous cough. "Of course not, I—"

  "Now, the thing for you to understand is that timing is of the essence. Everything I direct you to do must be done exactly as I say." I walk to the couch and take a seat across from him. "Once you are sworn in, give it two months," I say, lifting my cigar to my lips.

  The door opens and Camilla steps in, hesitating, I assume when she notices Andre. "Ah, Camilla," I say, motioning her in. "Do come in."

  Andre cocks a brow. Without a word, she goes to the sideboard and grabs the bottle of vodka. Her and her vodka... She attempts to hurry past us, but I don't intend to make things so easy for little kitty.

  I pat the seat next to me. "Come." Smoke billows from my lips. "Have a seat."

  Stopping midstride, she narrows her eyes. Her gaze swings from me to Andre before she reluctantly comes and takes a seat beside me.

  "You remember Andre?"

  Her demeanor changes, her unease around me shifts until that mask of impenetrable confidence once again rests on her pretty face. "Of course. How are you...should I call you Mr. President yet?" she practically purrs.

  "She's charming, Ronan. Truly." He smirks before glancing at me. "Two months and then I detonate the missile?"

  "Yes." A twinge of exhilaration darts along my spine. "And of course, when war is declared," I say, because it will be, "you set off the other one."

  He grins. Cold calculated, dangerous. It's why I like Andre. "Very well," he says and pushes up from the chair, buttoning his jacket as he nods at Camilla. "I'll see you at the funeral?"

  "Of course."

  Andre laughs as he walks toward the door where Igor waits to show him out.

  I glance at Camilla and she's carefully studying me. "Ah, Ronan. So happy when you're playing with your puppets." She brushes her hand over my tie before adjusting the knot. "Although I'm not sure if it's world domination or world war you want."

  I smirk. "Are they not one in the same?"

  She tilts her head to the side. The way her hair cascades over her face is beautiful, tempting. "Why? Why strive so far when you already have so much? You paint a target on your back. You risk everything."

  The answer is so simple, yet so hard for most people to understand: "When you have so much, what else is there to do?"

  "So when a man has everything, he seeks his own destruction?" She flashes a wry smile before taking a swig.

  "No, I seek the thrill." I take the bottle from her, placing my lips to the rim and gulping the warm liquor back.

  "And in doing so, the man who loves control invites chaos."

  "Chaos is order waiting to be controlled." I smile.

  She shifts closer, wrappings her fingers around the bottle as her eyes drop to my mouth. "Ah, that's where you're wrong. The beauty is all in the chaos. I see the appeal in bombs, powerful weapons. The fire, the cleansing..." Her eyes flash as she retreats, taking the bottle of vodka with her. "But you and I are very different Russian." She takes another swig with her gaze locked on me. "Could it be that you secretly like the anarchy of it all?" She raises an eyebrow before turning the bottle up again.

  There is beauty in chaos, beauty in the promise of controlling it. Taming it. Camilla is the embodiment of chaos, and maybe that is why I am so very fascinated with her. "Oh, I very much like it, little kitty." I sweep her hair behind her shoulder, trailing my fingers along the curve of her neck. "And you and I—we are not so different," I whisper. "I take happiness within the suffering of others." Leaning over, I kiss her neck and she shivers. "Tell me, do you like to watch people suffer?"

  "I like to watch my enemies suffer."

  "Do you want to watch me suffer, Camilla?" I nip at her neck and a soft moan escapes her lips.

  "Are you my enemy, Ronan?" There's the slightest sense of vulnerability to her tone. She doesn't want me to be her enemy but she'd never admit it, because then she has lost—at least that's the way she'll see it.

  "Tell me," I whisper against her throat, teasing her skin with my teeth. The smell of her skin possesses me, and I find myself gripping her jaw, tilting her head farther and farther to the side until she's nearly laid out on the couch. She swallows heavily and her breath hitches. "Tell me how you'd make me suffer."

  "What if I don't want your suffering? What if I were to simply kill you?"

  I laugh. "Let's not pretend I'm inconsequential to you, Camilla." I kiss the scab on her throat. "I've taken you, your cartel." Another light kiss farther down her neck. "I've seduced you. Denied you. And now..." I laugh against her soft skin, breathing her in. "Now you truly are mine."

  "I will never be yours, Russian." She scratches over my cheek then grips my jaw, her long fingernails digging into my skin. "You're right. I do want your suffering, but...you like pain too much. Maybe I'd just have to cut you, watch your blood stain your skin so beautifully." She nips at my ear and my pulse rises. "You'd be so hard for me. And I'd refuse to fuck you just to watch you suffer."

  My eyes flutter shut on a groan, my cock swelling. "You wouldn't refuse me."

  "You think too much of yourself, Russian," she says.

  I smooth my hand over my shirt before holding it out for her. "Come, little kitty."

  4

  Camilla

  I hesitantly take his hand, frustration and need eating away at me as he pulls me to my feet. Without a word, he guides me through the doorway, down the hall, and to the far side of the house I've never been in.

  He pushes open a door, leading me into an obnoxiously enormous room. The roaring fire in the fireplace bathes the walls with a copper glow. Wisps of gold in the wallpaper, and seemingly on every fitting and fixture, glint in the light. A massive four poster bed covered with red satin sheets sits in the middle of the room in all its gaudy glory.

  I'm in his bedroom. Suddenly, I feel uneasy, very much like the lamb that wandered into the lion's den. Oh, how I hate that he can make me so very unsure of myself so easily. I've been in his house for weeks, but this is different. A little voice in my head tells me that this is good, that he trusts me, that I'm being pulled ever closer to Ronan Cole's inner circle, a place rife with opportunity. The vulnerable part of me fears being in Ronan's orbit because I'm terrified I'll crash an
d burn.

  "This is your room," I say quietly.

  He glances over his shoulder and smiles. "It is. How very observant."

  I roll my eyes and fold my arms over my chest. "If you wanted to fuck me, the couch was fine. Or the desk...pool table..."

  His eyes narrow as he slips out of his shirt, folding it just so and laying it on the dresser. I have to force myself to look away from the perfection of his body.

  "You should change for bed," he says, nodding toward the closet. I frown and walk over to the closet, running my fingers over the rows of expensive dresses that were in my room. Shit. I'm in his orbit alright, hook line and sinker. I swallow heavily and take a deep breath. The problem with this... I have spent so long hating him that its instinctive, but I have to constantly fight the urge to like him, his strange little ways, his odd sense of humor, his utter ruthlessness. I'm inexplicably drawn to his sick and twisted nature. I respect it. The closer I get to Ronan the harder it is to remember all the reasons I hate him. Distance is what has allowed me to survive this long and apparently, I'm about to lose it. Turning around, I walk back into the huge room and watch him for a second.

  He strips down to his underwear—every bit of clothing folded. He throws the thick comforter back and climbs in, watching me. Does he expect me to sleep with him?

  "Come to bed, little kitty," he says.

  "You want me to sleep...with you?"