The Darkest Temptation

by Danielle Lori

  He leaned in and rested his body on mine. He felt hot to the touch, and I knew it was because he burned with the flames of hell. Pressing his face into my neck, he nuzzled me, his voice rough with restraint.

  “Do you know how they tame falcons?”

  I remained silent, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  He ran his lips down my throat. “They lock them away, cover their eyes, and hand-feed them.”

  “I’d rather starve.”

  His chuckle was throaty, punctuated by his hips pressing into mine, his erection hard between my legs. Obviously, the novelty hadn’t worn off completely. Our bodies fit together like they were made for one another. What a joke that was.

  I wanted to show indifference, but my nerves prickled with anxiety, each touch from him flaring with sensitivity. The mere brush of his shirt buttons against my skin sent a shiver scattering across my body.

  He slipped his legs between mine, released my wrists to grasp my thighs, and dug his fingers into the soft flesh, spreading them wide so he could press his hard-on fully against me. The grind against my clit sent a sliver of heat through me, penetrating the dread like a hot trickle of water.

  My heart began an odd gallop in my chest, the easy reception my body gave him tightening my stomach. I grabbed his hands, and he let me pull them away from my thighs—but only because he was already where he wanted to be, releasing a very human breath between his teeth.

  Of course, it had to be lust that was his only mortal weakness.

  I held his hands in my own, trying to stop them from touching me and disturbing my senses, though the act suddenly burned with intimacy, and I dropped them.

  “Please don’t do this,” I breathed.

  He wasn’t listening to me. He was running his palms up the flare of my hips, gripping my waist and pulling me harder against his erection, which sent another flare of heat up my spine. Haziness and something bright shrouded the darkness in his eyes as he watched his hands on my body. He was somewhere else—somewhere Vikings went in the throes of bloodlust while pillaging and raping women.

  I shouldn’t have fought him. Or maybe I shouldn’t have given up until the end. But it was a futile, ridiculous fight I’d never win, and I was preoccupied with a battle of my own: the warmth of his touch trying to cloud the resentment in my mind.

  He braced a hand beside my head, leaned in, and kissed my neck, biting down on the skin before he sucked it into his mouth, undoubtedly leaving a hickey behind for another infamous selfie. My breath hitched. He cupped my breast and squeezed, running a thumb across my nipple. I rebelled against the hot sensation, a cold sweat of conflict rising in my blood.

  I didn’t want this.

  But my body wasn’t convinced as he kissed a path down my neck and ran his mouth between my breasts. He was surprisingly gentle. So gentle, I resented it.

  I wanted him to hurt me.

  I wanted pain.

  Because then, I could feel only hatred.

  He drew a nipple into his mouth, and a rush of fire swept to the empty pressure between my legs. I tried to push him away, but he grabbed my wrists, pressed them to the mattress on either side of me, and shackled them there in an iron grip. He moved to the other breast and scraped the taut peak with teeth before sucking. I bit my cheek to hold in the moan that wanted to escape.

  His head moved lower, the wet heat of his tongue dipping inside my navel. My body tightened like a bow string when he pressed his face between my thighs and inhaled. His warm breath brushed my clit, and a fever unfolded inside, liquefying the tension in my muscles like melted butter.

  “Kotyonok,” he said, the low rumble of his voice making my entire sex throb. “I bet you taste as sweet as you smell.”

  I never thought this would be his intention when he won.

  Fisting the comforter on either side of me, I fought the urge to lift my hips toward the wetness and heat. This was just another way for him to humiliate me; to pull my body to his will while my mind still despised him.

  Begging and fighting hadn’t stopped him, and as panic whirled within, my mouth spat out the first words it grasped onto.

  “What kind of sadist are you? You consider this torture?”

  He placed an open-mouthed kiss on my inner thigh, and I heard a slight smile in his voice. “I don’t feel like torturing you right now. I feel like seeing how fast I can make you come with my mouth.”

  He was obviously confident he could do it fast, and I hated knowing, even now, he probably could. My body didn’t seem to have forgotten he gave it pleasure and food; how he evoked a desperate want inside of me that finally made me feel alive. It still grabbed on tight, unwilling to let go.

  Shame expanded in my chest and burned the backs of my eyes.

  I hated him.

  He’d degraded me. Used me. Ripped out my heart. And when he got what he wanted—my papa’s head—he’d throw me out with the trash.

  Tears running down my cheeks, I went somewhere faraway. Somewhere desolate and numb. He must have felt the sudden surrender in my body before he put his mouth on me because his eyes lifted to my face. He watched me for a long, suffocating moment, and then he pulled away from me.

  I gazed at the ceiling, my body suddenly shaking with each breath of relief.

  When he returned a few seconds later, he grabbed my wrist and began securing it to the iron headboard. I didn’t resist when he moved to the other. He probably thought I was pathetic; limp with submission and tear tracks on my cheeks. But I no longer cared what he thought.

  He gripped my chin and turned my face so I looked at him. “You’ll be tied up until I know you can behave.”

  I was staring through him. He noticed, and the strain in the air tightened my lungs—then released, settling to the floor as calm and languid as still water. I exhaled when the unexpected brush of his thumb skimmed across my cheek. It slid over my lips and pulled the bottom one down slightly. A soft caress, heavy with possession.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve broken my pet already,” he said thoughtfully.

  All of the emotion locked tight by years of obedience rose to the surface, and my eyes flashed. “Go to hell.”

  He smiled. “Sleep tight, kotyonok.”

  acatalepsy

  (n.) the inability to truly comprehend anything

  I didn’t move when the door shut behind him. A cool draft touched my bare skin and sent a shiver through me. I was naked and cold, my wrists secured uncomfortably above my head, but somehow, I managed to drift off to sleep.

  Self-loathing was exhausting.

  I woke to the sun slanting across my body and an uncomfortable pressure in my bladder.

  For the first time, I viewed the room in daylight. I lay in the middle of a king-size bed with an elaborate iron headboard and a white duvet. Heavy drapes, the color of blood, framed the window with a reading seat beneath. The space was large, conveying wealth in a traditionally Russian way. Seeing no personal effects, I surmised I was in a guest room.

  My eyes settled on a cracked wooden door leading into what I hoped was a bathroom. I really had to pee, and I wasn’t about to add urinating all over myself to my list of humiliations.

  I jerked against the ropes, trying to twist my wrists out of them, but they were so tight, all I managed to do was rub my skin raw. I let out an angry sound of frustration and pulled hard against them, ready to take the headboard down if I had to.

  At the sound of the door opening, I froze.

  A dark-haired woman stood in the doorway wearing skinny jeans and a frayed T-shirt over the slight curve of her pregnant belly. She held a toddler on her hip who wore an oversized Possessed band T-shirt as a dress and knitted thigh-high socks. And I swore, she was watching me with a hint of judgement in her eyes.

  For an uneasy moment, I thought the woman could be Ronan’s girlfriend and daughter. But then she spoke.

  “Please tell me this is some kind of kinky role-play.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but my express
ion must have told her everything she needed to know.

  She sighed and muttered, “In-laws.”

  I vaguely recognized this might be the sister-in-law Ronan mentioned, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it because a man stepped into the doorway dressed in a cool blue suit, a sippy cup in hand.

  The woman hefted the girl higher on her hip, her voice dry as she nodded toward me. “Christian, look at what your brother has done.”

  My body tightened in mortification when his gaze came my way, though he seemed to be assessing the situation more than noticing I was completely naked. His face was stunning, carved from ice into perfection, and the mere touch of his eyes made me recall that photo in Ronan’s office.

  He was the other boy.

  Christian looked away from me and said simply, “She’s a Mikhailov.”

  “What’s Mikhailov?” the little girl asked.

  The woman put a hand on her hip. “I don’t care if she’s Satan’s daughter—”

  “Close,” he responded.

  “Satan has horns.” The girl looked at me with a sense of disappointment. “She don’t have horns.”

  Weird child aside, wasn’t Christian’s brother the one they called D’yavol? I hated how everyone looked at me like I was some kind of monster. Now that I knew what business my papa was in, all the cold, fearful glances I’d received since arriving in Moscow suddenly made sense.

  “I’m not leaving her like this,” the woman said.

  “Mamma,” her daughter whispered. “Is she my babywatcher?”

  “Babysitter. And no, cara mia.”

  “Oh.” The girl pursed her lips. “Then we should probably let her go, Papa.”

  How old was this girl? And had she been raised in a den of vipers?

  He didn’t look pleased with his wife and daughter ganging up on him, but he didn’t argue. He grabbed the girl from her arms and turned toward me, his voice colder than a Russian winter.

  “Touch my wife, and what my brother has done to you will suddenly look like fun.”

  I swallowed.

  His wife rolled her eyes. “He’s a little intense, but he means well.” She tried to shut the door, but he stopped it from closing with his foot, giving her a meaningful look to leave it open. She smiled innocently at him, like she’d behave. When he finally left, she waited with an impatient tap of her cheetah-print stilettos until he was far enough down the hall he wouldn’t notice, then she shut it.

  “I’m Gianna, by the way.” She walked toward me. “I’m sure you don’t go by Mikhailov?”

  I hesitated, not knowing what to expect from her considering her husband was terrifying, and her brother-in-law should be committed. Finally, I answered, “Mila.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mila.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “Where are you from?”

  “Miami.”

  “Oh, I adore Miami. I’ve never eaten better Cuban food anywhere else,” she said, adding with amusement, “but, then again, I haven’t exactly been to Cuba.”

  I stared at her. I wasn’t sure what kind of world I’d stepped into, and it was starting to hurt my head.

  Gianna struggled with the rope on my wrist, murmuring in a language I thought was Italian. She was, so far, the nicest—if questionably sane—person I’d met since setting foot in Moscow.

  “He learned how to tie a knot in prison,” I said tonelessly.

  “Among other things, I’m sure,” she parried as if she was annoyed. “I wonder if he engaged in a threesome too.”

  She laughed at my blankly confused expression. “Sorry, that was just my aversion to prison nurses showing. It happens at the oddest times.” She finally freed a wrist before moving to the other, and I winced at the ache in my muscles as I lowered my arm to my side. “I’ve never known Ronan to tie a woman to a bed only to leave her there. I hope it’s just a phase.”

  I was beginning to understand crazy was just the norm around here.

  “We can only hope,” I said drily. Then, I added with unease, “Does his girlfriend live here?”

  That amused her. “I’m sure hell will freeze over before Ronan is monogamous.” She paused to look me over, her gaze settling on my neck, which I knew was marked with a hickey. “But then again . . . this makes me feel a little optimistic.”

  I didn’t think she was kidding.

  I would hate to see how she and her husband got together.

  “I thought Nadia was his girlfriend,” I said slowly.

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, thankfully. She would make an awful sister-in-law. I can just imagine the dinner conversation.”

  A modicum of relief filled me at the knowledge I hadn’t fooled around with someone’s boyfriend. The idea only added to the sickness of the situation. However, that was the least of my worries right now.

  “I try to stay out of my husband and his brother’s business, but sometimes, eavesdropping gets the best of me. Ronan has an issue with your papa, not you.” She tugged at the rope with an Italian curse. “I’m sure it won’t be long until he concedes, and this is all sorted out.”

  She seemed indifferent to the fact concede meant my papa’s head would decorate Ronan’s mantel. The hopelessness of this situation pulled on my chest while I stared at the ceiling.

  “My papa already agreed to trade himself for me.”

  She raised a brow. “Then why does Ronan still need you?”

  “Torture.”

  She laughed and then sobered when she realized I was serious. “Well . . . that’s interesting.”

  Being sane and all, I had different words for the situation.

  The other rope fell free, and I rolled off the bed. “Thank you. I just have to—”

  “Go. I’ll find you some clothes.”

  Thankfully, the cracked door led into a bathroom, and I released a sigh as I relieved myself. I washed my hands and face with a bar of soap and then found a spare toothbrush in the vanity drawer that I made use of, scrubbing the acidic taste of last night’s festivities from my mouth.

  I returned to the room, suddenly feeling very, very naked.

  Gianna sat on the bed with an article of clothing in her hand. “Here you go.”

  I thanked her before slipping it on. The black, oversized T-shirt had Elvis Presley’s face on it, and it reached only to the tops of my thighs.

  “Sorry,” she said. “The shirt was all I could get. Ronan gave me a growly look that swore retribution.”

  My expression conveyed alarm for her.

  She smiled. “He’s more bark than bite, I promise.”

  “I saw him cut off a man’s finger, and he’s going to kill my papa.”

  “Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess that puts him in an awkward light, doesn’t it?”

  Bad light, I corrected in my head.

  I was that person.

  “I’m sorry about your papa. I am. But you’ve been thrown into the underworld, and here, things aren’t always black and white.”

  I contemplated her words while she moved to the door.

  “I have to go. My husband gave me a look that said we won’t be staying for dinner. Which is a shame because Polina makes the best medovik.” She rubbed a hand over her pregnant belly. “Anyway, I’m sure next time we meet, there’ll be less ropes and more clothes.”

  She sounded optimistic, but I could only see my body parts being shipped off in FedEx boxes, my papa’s coffin, and, if I survived this, a world to traverse on my own. My stomach tightened. A burn stung the backs of my eyes.

  Compassion filled her gaze, her hand on the knob. “Just remember . . . you have a goddess inside you.” She stepped into the hall and turned to look at me. “You just have to find her.”

  strikhedonia

  (n.) the pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it.”

  I sat in the library behind my desk, an unlit cigar in hand. I refrained from smoking it because my brother occupied the couch with a sleeping Kat. They were always welcome, uninvited or not, but I found myself
irritated by the timing.

  Silence held steady in the room with his cool eyes on mine. I knew he had something to say, and I knew what it would be about, but still, I waited.

  “There’s a naked girl tied to your guest room bed.”

  My muscles tightened, revolting against the idea he saw her naked—an odd reaction considering I’d never minded sharing women before, not with my brother or anyone else. But I forced myself to lean back in my chair and say, “She’s my pet.”

  I assumed the uncomfortable feeling originated from the fact I was the one who caught Mila. I put all the work in. I didn’t want anyone else to see her misery. It was mine.

  “Your pet looks like a Mikhailov.”

  “That’s because she is.”

  “Her papa didn’t give in to your demands?”

  I trimmed the end of the cigar with my cutter. “He did.”

  He watched me with those inquisitive eyes. Christian—or rather, Kristian as I knew him—had always been able to see more than he should. It was annoying as fuck.

  “So why is she still tied to your bed?”

  My gaze narrowed. “She’s my pet.”

  He looked away from me, obviously seeing everything he needed to. “You’d better make the trade.”

  Aggravation lit in my chest, but I kept my voice indifferent. “I don’t tell you how to do your fancy desk job, so don’t tell me how to do mine.”

  I was surprised Alexei had conceded so quickly.

  And I didn’t like being surprised.

  Though something else—something visceral, violent—swept through me at the thought of giving Mila up before I got what I wanted from her. I had a better idea: Prolong Alexei’s suffering by holding onto his precious daughter for a while. If this was like-for-like, I’d send her mutilated body back to him. But I didn’t want to mar her skin. I wanted her naked underneath me, her nails in my back, while I saw how many times I could make her come. The need raged inside me, hot and unrelenting. I was sure once I had it, this obsession would subside.

  Then I could have my cake and eat it too.

  “She has a hickey on the inside of her thigh,” Kristian mentioned casually.