Mila fisted the ropes, eyes closed, a pink flush warming her cheeks. I’d barely touched her, and she was close to coming. Only an idiot would believe they were the first to get her off. She was a hair trigger, and there wasn’t a chance she’d remained celibate considering how she threw herself at me.
I stilled my hand and asked, “How many men have made you come?”
She inhaled deeply, in relief or frustration. I wasn’t sure she even knew which, but it was clear she had no desire to respond.
“Answer me,” I demanded.
Silence.
She was stubborn, but so was I.
I slapped her between the legs.
A gasp escaped her before she slayed me with a lethal gaze. “Sorry, was I supposed to keep count?”
My teeth clenched. I vowed to make her count every orgasm I gave her until she begged me to stop. Before I could give in to the desire to start right then and there, I pulled my hand away and stood.
“Bad pets don’t get rewarded.”
Fury cooled all of the desire in her gaze. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, D’yavol. And when you do, I’ll smile when they cover you with dirt.”
Fuck. That was kind of hot. And annoying.
I gripped her face. “If I go down, I’ll take you with me. Your Mikhailov blood will keep me cool in hell.”
An uncertain flicker passed through her eyes, and then she looked at the ceiling, dismissing me in an arrogant way no one else would dare. I released her roughly, and with a hot rush of frustration, I walked out of the room to find Yulia scrubbing up blood with an obsessive mentality.
The woman had knocked on my front door seven years ago, unperturbed by the guards and guns, and announced, “I would like job.”
I recognized her from two different occasions.
In my preteens, she fed me and my brother a hot meal and gave us a place to sleep for the night when she found us camping out in her car during a snowstorm. She was also on the news for butchering her husband with a meat cleaver without a single explanation, serving a decade in the looney bin. I should have thought twice about it, but instead, I opened the door wide and said, “You can start today.”
She’d proven to be a loyal servant, which was invaluable in this house.
Standing on the front porch, I grabbed a pack of cigarettes from Ilya’s jacket pocket, took one out, and put it between my lips. Blood trailed across the driveway to the garage, where Albert was busy dealing with the body.
I slipped the pack back into Ilya’s pocket. “Lighter?”
He shuffled for his Zippo, flicking it open. I lit my smoke, inhaled on it deeply, and headed to the car parked in the drive before hollering at Pavel across the yard.
My newest recruit, lanky and still in his late teens, hesitated.
I watched him mosey his way over here, inhaling on my cigarette. “You got a stick up your ass or something?” I asked, blowing smoke out of the side of my mouth. “Or did your girlfriend try something new last night?”
Laughter resounded through the yard.
The kid turned red. “No.”
“Let’s go. You’re driving.” I flicked the smoke to the snow and sat in the back seat.
I hated the taste of cigarettes, but I’d needed a hit of nicotine. I pulled a piece of Big Red out of the center console, tossed one onto Pavel’s lap, and watched him grip the wheel with white knuckles.
“You know how to drive, don’t you?”
“I can figure it out,” he stammered.
Jesus.
Viktor recruited and trained my men, but apparently, driving wasn’t included. I could get someone else to take me, but instead, I sat back in my seat and prepared for a sketchy ride into Moscow. Pavel had to learn eventually.
I checked my watch, noting the blood on my hand and shirt. The kid must have gotten the brake and gas pedal backward; the car suddenly lurched forward and then stopped abruptly.
I ignored it.
One of my mother’s clients taught me how to drive when I was eleven. He was high as fuck when he put a gun to my thigh and told me to keep it at sixty kmph. Longest drive of my life.
I had a meeting with Alfonso in an hour. The Colombian drug lord’s latest shipment of cocaine was cut with laundry detergent, and I made it a priority to make sure what I put out was pure. A chemist in Rublyovka tested all my product in his basement. It was an interesting meeting in front of me, but all I could think about was the girl tied to my guest room bed.
I ran a thumb over my split bottom lip wondering how I was going to work her over. Diamonds and furs wouldn’t do it, unfortunately. She responded to a little seduction a moment ago, but I didn’t want to push her to a point of simply needing to get off. I wanted her to need me; to beg, live, and breathe just for me.
On second thought, I probably wouldn’t have time for all that, so I’d settle for a hard and willing fuck.
Unsure of the angle to take with this girl, the thrill of the chase mixed with the pent-up frustration tightening in my groin. I had multiple women I could call, Nadia included, but somehow, I knew I wouldn’t. The only lips I wanted on my dick right now tasted like strawberries.
The longer Mila made me wait, the more she’d regret it.
Her phone rang in my pocket. I turned it back on this morning, having the urge to gloat a little. When I saw Ivan’s name onscreen, a smile pulled on my lips. I answered the call and brought it to my ear.
“Ronan’s Steakhouse. Home of the largest sausage in Moscow.”
“Ty sukin syn.” You son of a bitch.
I chuckled. “Bitch is appropriate, but ‘cunt’ would be a better description of my mother.”
“You touched her,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
“My mother?” I parried with amusement. “No. Even I find incest unappealing.” Then I added, “Not to mention, not a huge fan of STDs.”
He made a bitter sound. “I’m sure you have a history with them. You’ve fucked half the city.”
“Nah. I always wrap it up.” And then I drawled a popular health provider’s slogan. “Prevention is the key to health and happiness.”
“You’re a dead man walking, you know that?”
“Living on the edge always did make my cock feel a little tingly.”
Pavel blew a stop sign, narrowly missing a T-bone collision with a farm truck.
“Jesus, kid,” I snapped.
He white-knuckled the wheel. “Fuck, I’m sorry!”
“How did you coerce her to make that video?” Ivan growled.
This was all fun and games until now. My blood heated at the idea he’d watched it; that he’d seen Mila’s body in person before; that he’d fucked her. My chest twisted with aversion, but from years of training, I managed to keep my voice indifferent. “Good show, huh?”
“I’d rather fuck your mother’s corpse than watch that.”
Good.
That was good.
Although, I now regretted sending that video to her papa. I didn’t think he would show it to others, but if he did, they were dead men. She was mine for the time being, every goddamn inch of her, whether she liked it or not. I refused to analyze the feeling. I had enough shit to do.
“She wouldn’t have done it unless you blackmailed her.”
Interesting he was so concerned about whether she was willing or not, rather than if I’d harmed her since. Maybe he knew a hard shell of viciousness encased her soft heart.
“You know her so well, do you?” I asked.
“Better than anyone.”
My grip tightened on the ridiculous sparkly phone. “Obviously not as well as you believe.” The innuendo was clear: there was no blackmail necessary.
“You’re an idiot if you think I’ll believe anything you say, D’yavol.” A hint of vulnerability touched his voice, and I realized, with a sense of disgust, the man had feelings for her. I wondered if she shared them. The idea seemed more repulsive than watching the Hallmark channel for twenty-four hours straight.
&nb
sp; “I prefer to talk about my prowess in bed over tea, but I’ll make an exception today. I assure you, Mila has no complaints.” Had, I corrected in my head.
“Remember, when you have your revenge, Mila will come back to me. We’ll see who has better prowess then.”
I gritted my teeth, and a murderous buzz flared to life beneath my skin. “Run, Ivan,” I warned with a deadly calm. “Run fast. Because if I catch you, I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands.”
I ended the call.
The bastard was in my city, but he knew how to play the game. Not as good as me though.
I would find him.
And when I did, there was a space on my mantel with his name on it.
abience
(n.) the strong urge to avoid someone
The sun rose to fill the space with rays, bound wrists, and retribution.
Yulia entered the room adorned in black, exuding irritation when she noticed the broken chair on the floor. Unperturbed by the sight of me, she took her time tidying things up while humming a creepy tune. I wondered where Ronan found his employees. The insane asylum?
Dried blood marched like ants down my body, itching and chafing. Worse than the crawling sensation was the guilt I fought from rising to the surface. I shouldn’t feel remorse for defending myself, but a tightness still invaded my chest. I wondered if the blood on my skin was an eternal stain I could never wash off. I wondered if that man had family, children. The idea made me sick to my stomach, so, for the hundredth time, I forced the thought away and decided I needed to escape this place before it swallowed me whole.
My gaze found Yulia who was dusting the room with single-minded purpose. Every woman had to have a little maternal instinct inside of them. Maybe I could play on her sympathies to help me. I jumped when she smacked the dresser with a loud thwack. Then, she flicked a quarter-size spider to the floor with a disturbing amount of satisfaction. Obviously, the motherly side in this one was smaller than most, but it wasn’t like I had many other options.
“Do you have children?” I asked her.
“Ikh slishkom mnogo.” Too many of them.
Not exactly the best start, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. “What would you do if one of them was in my situation?”
“I would tell them not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
I blinked slowly. “I must be unfamiliar with Russian gifts. In America, being kidnapped isn’t equivalent to unwrapping a tin of butter cookies and that hideous scarf your grandma knitted for you on Christmas morning.”
With a roll of her eyes, she moved to right the rug. “There are worse things than being fed three times a day.”
“Like being tied to a bed covered in blood all night?”
“You got yourself into that mess, devushka.” She must room next door or have secret passages in the walls she peeked through. I was growing annoyed she was painting me in the wrong here, and even more irritated a part of me felt she was right.
“And I imagine you’d just lie here and take it,” I said in disbelief.
“You are dramatic. Master is not bad man.”
A constant beat ached in my head whenever someone spoke to me in this home that defied all rationality. The only thing Ronan needed in order to become the classic villain straight from the pages of a vampire novel was fangs. The fact Yulia couldn’t see that, given she just referred to him as “Master,” conjured the mental image of him brainwashing her with a supernatural power.
“I’m not sure how men courted in your day and age, but in the twenty-first century, this”—I tugged at the ropes on my wrists—“isn’t exactly the best third date.”
“Americans. Greedy, the lot of you.”
I dropped my head back onto the pillow. Clearly, I wouldn’t receive any help from Yulia.
“I have to pee,” I deadpanned.
“Congratulations.”
“Fine.” I shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not like I have to do the laundry around here.”
Narrowed eyes met mine, and I held them in challenge. After a stare-off that lasted longer than anyone sane would be comfortable with, Yulia moved to the bed and untied my wrists with the quick type of skill that conveyed this wasn’t her first time dealing with ropes or pets.
When I was free, I stared at my expression in the bathroom mirror. I looked like the college girl in a gory horror film who got killed first by a chainsaw. Considering the stupidity that got me into this situation . . . how apt a comparison. My stomach grew queasy, so I turned the shower to hot, stripped, and stood under the spray of water.
Red swirled down the drain, and at the sight, cold prickles erupted on the back of my neck. The memory crashed into me like a tidal wave, snatched the beating heart from my chest, and let it sink to the depths of the Atlantic.
Holding Mr. Bunny by his droopy ear, I watched the shiny red car pull into the drive from my window. I’d only seen the woman a couple of times after Papa put me to bed and thought I was sleeping.
I frowned, remembering the day before, when I told the neighbor boy I didn’t have a mother. He looked at me like I was so dumb, and then, he said everyone had a mom, and if they didn’t, they were an orphan. I didn’t want to be an orphan.
This woman had long blonde hair, just like me.
Maybe she was my mother.
Suddenly, I felt very thirsty, and the glass Papa left near my bed wouldn’t do. The water was old, and it probably had dust in it.
Mr. Bunny in hand, I tiptoed down the stairs in my nightgown. Papa always said he had a sixth sense that would tell him when I wasn’t in bed like I was supposed to be, but only a four-year-old would believe that, and I turned five yesterday.
My tummy dipped when shouts drifted down the hall. Papa never raised his voice. He must be very angry. I drifted toward the sounds and stopped in front of the closed library door.
Bang!
My heart jumped. I leapt back, and Mr. Bunny slipped from my fingers.
Then, it went silent.
Red paint leaked from beneath the door, soaking my favorite stuffed animal. He was mine, and now he was ruined. I scooped him up while a sob worked its way up my throat. Warm paint stained my hands and nightgown. It was a mess, and now I’d have to take a bath. Everything was ruined.
The library door opened. Papa said a bad word and blocked the doorway with his body, but I could see his friend asleep on the floor with long blonde hair and red paint all over her.
Closing the door, Papa picked me up, my cheeks wet with tears.
“Mr. Bunny is ruined,” I cried.
“We’ll fix him up.”
I sniffled, tears slowing, and whispered, “I’m thirsty.”
“You have water beside your bed.”
“It has amoebas in it.” I was going through a Bo phase from Signs.
“You don’t know what those are.”
He forced me to take a bath and combed conditioner through my hair. If he didn’t, my curls got too tangled, and they hurt to brush out.
“Papa, your friend . . . is she my mother?”
His gaze softened. “No, angel.”
My eyes grew heavy as he scooped me up in a towel. And the last image I had before sleep took me under, was red paint running down the drain . . .
I slid down the shower wall, numbness pervading every cell within me. I’d like to believe my mind had pushed the memory so deep it’d never see the light of day in an act of self-preservation, but that was a lie. Subconsciously, I always knew something wasn’t right, that things weren’t as sparkly as they seemed, and I smothered the guilt of ignoring the truth by living an altruistic life. Although, with the knowledge in front of my face, I couldn’t live in blissful ignorance anymore.
My papa may be a good father.
But he was not a good man.
Even now, I didn’t know what to do. In this world, everything was twisted and upside down, and as the numbness faded, uncertainty of where my loyalties should lie tore at me.
Picking mysel
f up off the floor, I wrapped a towel around me and exited the bathroom, taking a step back before I ran into Yulia. Without further ado, she shoved my cheer bag into my arms.
“Dress. Then you come down to breakfast.”
I hesitated, looking at the bag that felt foreign in my arms. A week in this house, and my past was a distant memory. I’d wanted out of this room, but today I wasn’t so sure about anything.
“It was not request,” Yulia snapped impatiently.
“And if I don’t?” Casting a meaningful glance at her small frame that was easily five inches shorter than mine, I asked, “Are you going to carry me out?”
Her expression hardened, and with a humph, she turned on her heel to the door, steps filled with purpose. She was going to tell on me, and the last thing I wanted this morning was to be manhandled by an oversized psychopath.
“I’m going,” I growled.
She paused, and then, slowly, she turned to me with a triumphant smile.
“Evil woman,” I said under my breath, only to hear a returned, “Brat.”
Refusing to allow her to drag me down to an eight-year-old’s level, I ignored the insult and dug through my bag like it might hold the key to escaping this place—though, unfortunately, all it contained was a pile of bright, messy clothes.
I hadn’t gone this long without shaving since I was thirteen, but wearing pants to conceal it felt like Ronan would be winning an unsaid battle. I didn’t care what he thought of my appearance, and if it turned him off—even better. I slipped on a flowy off-the-shoulder bohemian dress and inhaled a breath for the confidence I would need to traverse the devil’s lair.
With bare feet, I followed Yulia down the hall, throat tightening as I passed the spot the guard fell. A lemon scent lingered in the air, and the floor sparkled like it was polished. I wondered if Yulia spent her morning knee-deep in bloody paper towels.
As we made our way downstairs, I took in my surroundings. The home’s decor was grand, with tall ceilings, white crown molding, and marble floors. However, the Persian rugs, dark curtains, and mismatched furniture gave it a warm and masculine feel. If it wasn’t my prison cell, I could almost say it was comfortable.
Ronan sat at the end of the long table in the dining room. He reclined in his high-back chair like a king, eyes as dark as his soul. Like some twisted version of Narnia, I was sure, if I stepped into his wardrobe, it would lead me straight to hell.
The Darkest Temptation Page 16