Clouds parted, the sun sparkling against the snow. Trees lined the edges of the property, and I wondered how far I would have to walk to find civilization or even just a road with the occasional passerby. Although, even if a highway sat three feet outside of Ronan’s yard, I wasn’t sure how I’d reach it. Not with his constant night watch and dogs who were undoubtedly faster than me.
Having free rein of the house, I took advantage of it. It took hours to peek into every nook and cranny on the first floor, but, unfortunately, I didn’t find a secret passageway that led out of here.
I hated the truth of the matter, but it was a gorgeous house.
Original paintings covered the walls, every piece of furniture held a timeless charm, and each room set a different mood. It felt like a home, not four walls of stationary stone.
And then I found the library.
Shelves stretched to the high ceiling, crammed full of books with a variety of colored spines. A large mahogany desk sat at the front of the room, and the smell of cloves saturated the air. I didn’t know what I found more offensive: the fact Ronan smoked next to a shelf of first editions, or that I would have to share this space with him for however long he kept me here.
The first book I pulled off the shelf was Paradise Lost by John Milton. How ironic. The novel was a set of poems depicting Satan as arrogant and instrumental to his own downfall, and, eventually, he lost the fight against God.
I dropped the book on Ronan’s desk on the way out.
The one glaring thing the house lacked was electronics. I didn’t find a single telephone, radio, or computer. Either the frequencies disrupted Ronan’s communications with the underworld, or he got rid of any way I could reach out for help.
The scrape of my fork and conflicted thoughts kept me company at dinner. I wondered if I was just as bad a person as my papa for having turned a blind eye to the truth and for protecting him even now by not being able to bear the thought of losing him. I wondered how much family I’d never had a chance to meet. But mostly, I wondered what or who the devil was dining on tonight.
The room sat still and desolate without his presence, and somehow, his absence only intensified the restless feeling he created inside. The memory of his low sound of approval ran down my body, raising goose bumps in its wake. I shoved my plate away in frustration and mentally recited, J’ai le syndrome de Stockholm. Tu as le syndrome de Stockholm. Nous avons le syndrome de Stockholm.
Before the silent maid could take my leftovers away, I grabbed the plate, slipped on my coat and shoes, and headed outside. The sun had set, but bright lights lit the yard and my way to the kennel.
Once again, the guards’ conversations faded as soon as I stepped out the door. Though the aloof dogs suddenly seemed interested in the dumplings on my plate, and they each took one, licking my fingers clean. I saved a pelmeni for the surly one, who sat alone in the corner staring at me. I dropped it beside him, but he didn’t move toward it. The other dogs gave him a wide berth, and I wondered if he was the alpha of the pack or just temperamental.
The sound of steps crunched in the snow behind me. “Stay away from that one,” Albert said. “He is not right in the head.”
The dog was probably the only one who was right in the head in this place.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Khaos.”
“Zdravstvuy, Khaos,” I whispered.
I turned to Albert and shoved the empty plate against his stomach. He grunted and grabbed the fine china before it fell.
“Thought you needed something to serve all that betrayal on,” I told him sweetly before heading back to the house.
Nearing the front door, I passed a guard with a cruel edge. He nudged the man beside him with the butt of his rifle and said something that evoked a laugh between them. A week ago, the obvious insult would have felt like a stab to the gut; like they could see straight through me to all the dirty secrets inside. Now, in this fortress of evil, those secrets were the only way I’d endure. Something inside of me didn’t just want to survive, but to thrive.
When I turned to look at them, something in my eyes made their laughter fade. I closed the distance between us, grabbed the unlit cigarette from the cruel-looking man’s lips, and put it between mine. Mechanically, the guard beside him handed me a lighter.
I held down the button to release the butane in my cupped palm, and then I lit the gas with the lighter, so the flame was captured in my hand. It was a simple trick being an only child with a wild spirit taught me as an adolescent, but judging by the wary way the guards watched me light a cigarette from a pyro ball in my hand, I must be a witch.
I always was a Practical Magic fan.
I slipped the smoke back between the slack guard’s lips, and when the cigarette went up in flames, curses erupted, and they both jumped back with a pat or two to their clothes.
Then, I turned to walk away, palm smarting beneath a cold Russian sky, and the first genuine smile touched my lips.
madrugada
(n.) the moment at dawn when the night greets the day
Hands in my pockets, I stood in front of the library window watching light search the horizon. The grandfather clock chimed the eight a.m. hour, signaling I got less than three hours of sleep after returning from Moscow last night. But as soon as the sun rose, so did I.
Old habits die hard.
The quiet winter morning remained still when the first ray of light reached the toes of my boots. Dust particles floated in the thin golden beam. The sight reminded me of sunlight filtering through a grimy apartment window; of frozen breaths from chapped lips, hunger, and fading yellow bruises.
First light in my childhood meant my brother and I had to run the streets and steal pastries from local bakeries. Kristian would scope the restaurant out, and I’d do the dirty work. My mom wasn’t exactly a cook. Or a mother who fed her kids. After she died, we were homeless and better off. To this day, my body still awoke charged every morning, expecting the need to find food. The involuntary response was called trauma, but I thought that sounded a bit dramatic.
When light glimmered on a flaxen head of hair, a lash of heat licked through me, slid down to solidify in my groin, and stretched my body taut. The rising sun created the perfect illusion of a halo on top of Mila’s head before she disappeared behind the trees that outlined my property. For a second, I thought I was so sexually repressed I was imagining her. God only knows how many times I’d thought about fisting a hand in that hair while she sucked me off. I was sure He didn’t approve, but maybe He should lower His expectations so we could all be happy.
The skirt of a sunflower dress slipped into view, and I sure as fuck knew my imagination wouldn’t come up with floral patterns. Apparently, Mila rose just as early—or she was only up in an effort to find an avenue of escape. I was hardly concerned.
Yesterday flooded back: the taste of her mouth and the feel of her body pressed against mine. The only thing that stopped me from fucking her against the shower wall was the intrusive thought I’d tricked her into something her young, volatile hormones couldn’t handle and that her submission wasn’t genuine.
I could be generous when I wanted to be.
Since then, my decision stuck with me like a bad toothache.
There were a million productive things I could be doing right now, but instead, I stood there with the need to see what my pet was up to this early in the morning.
When Mila stepped around a tree and into sight, my eyes narrowed before sliding down her body. She was wet and muddy, the luxury fur coat I bought her hanging off one shoulder. At this point, a thrift store would throw it away. If I wasn’t positive I didn’t have any pigs, I’d assume she’d been rolling around in a hog pen. The most ridiculous part of what I saw didn’t have anything to do with her appearance but what she was doing.
Yulia entered the room, the familiar swish-swash of her dress sounding. Before she could announce breakfast was ready, I gestured for her to come stand beside m
e and said in Russian, “Explain this to me.” I could see as clearly as Yulia, but I still needed confirmation.
She took a second, tilted her head to view the scene at a different angle, then straightened and crossed her arms. “The girl is climbing a tree with a baby crossbill in her hand. She must be trying to see if it can fly.”
I ran a thumb across my bottom lip, which lifted with dry amusement. I knew Mila wasn’t about to drop the baby bird from a tree branch. Rather, it was too young, fell out of its nest, and she was putting it back.
“Birds have parasites.” Yulia wrinkled her nose. “And she’d better not bring all that mud in the house.”
“Thank you, Yulia. I’ll be in for breakfast shortly.”
She nodded, quietly pleased she could be of service, and left the room.
Soon, Mila had an audience. Pavel stepped into view and appeared ready to catch her if she fell, which was laughable given Mila’s height outmatched his and the fact she’d only take him down with her. It became clear his stronger motivation was to get a glimpse up her dress. I couldn’t blame the kid, but I also experienced an odd desire to punch him in the face.
And then there was Albert, the sensible one, just watching Mila navigate her way up a tree with a bird in one hand. Her boot slipped on a branch, and bark fell to the snow before she found a better footing.
I was beginning to feel itchy and uncomfortable everywhere. Yulia better not have put peppermint in my tea. She knew I was allergic and that I broke out in hives worse than a Benadryl commercial.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I dialed Albert and brought it to my ear.
“Da?”
“Get her down from there now,” I ordered in Russian.
His gaze coasted over to meet mine through the window. “I tried, boss. She won’t listen.”
“Are you telling me you can’t corral one fucking woman?”
“No. Just not this one.”
What was so fucking different about this one? My eyes drifted up the tree to watch Mila’s ascent. How high was the nest? Heaven? I gritted my teeth and asked, “Why does she look like she’s been bikini mud wrestling?”
He hesitated for a beat before admitting, “She was playing with the dogs.”
The line went intensely silent for a beat.
“Not Khaos.” It was more of a growl than a question. The dog had turned aggressive and unpredictable, and he needed to be put down.
“Nyet.”
I was glad he had a little sense.
“I told her to not touch the bird. The mother won’t come back now.”
This was why Khaos still breathed even though he’d bitten five of my men. Albert couldn’t kill a fucking insect.
“That’s a myth,” I told him impatiently.
He scratched his cheek and made a casual sound that felt anything but. “That’s exactly what she said.”
“I want her down in the next five seconds,” I snapped and hung up.
The last thing I wanted to do right now was talk Mila down from a fucking tree. She’d probably insult me before climbing higher, and if I had to touch her right now . . .
Albert argued with Mila, who was clearly vehement about her conservationist efforts. After returning the bird to its nest, she began her descent back to earth. The relief was short-lived when, from ten feet aboveground, her grasp on the branch slipped. She slid a foot down the tree before she found purchase on another branch, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she laughed. Albert grabbed her ankle and tugged her down into his arms before setting her on solid ground.
I watched Mila brush pine needles off her muddy coat.
Give me a cold, dark cell occupied by five men who wanted to kill me, and I would make pancakes out of it. But give me that, and I didn’t know what else to do with it except fuck it. I’d yet to get there, so, admittedly, I was a little out of my element.
My phone pinged, and, welcoming the distraction, I grabbed it to read the message.
Nadia: I haven’t seen you in so long. Don’t you miss me?
I missed sex, that was for damn sure.
Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I lifted my gaze to see Pavel approach Mila. The kid rubbed the back of his neck and said something. It looked like he was trying out some English on her. It was probably awful. She would never tell him.
Nadia: Come over tonight. I will make you dinner . . . and dessert.
Me: Polina is a better cook.
Nadia: Does she suck cock better too?
Me: Give me a minute, and I’ll find out.
I would never go there with my cook, but an irrational buzz played beneath my skin and spread further each second.
Nadia:
Nadia: What about your American? Does she know how to get you off as well as I do?
My teeth clenched. I didn’t like Nadia even mentioning Mila.
Nadia: I bet she doesn’t.
Glancing up, I saw Pavel blush. The kid with an AK-47 slung to his chest.
Nadia: What’s wrong with you lately? I apologized about that last incident . . .
“That incident” was the last time I saw her, when she trashed her dressing room in a jealous rage because I didn’t take her up on her note offering a quick blow job during intermission.
Nadia: I slept with someone last night.
Me: I’m shocked.
I wasn’t.
Nadia: He went down on me.
Nadia: It was nice for once . . .
She acted like she was deprived, but I knew she received oral from men and women alike—and often. She just wanted to see me on my knees. I’d rather put my dick through a meat grinder.
Pavel stepped closer to show Mila something, his thumb and forefinger holding a chain around his neck. She shied away from his gun as if simply standing near it would make it go off. He’d noticed her necklace and was now showing off his. How cute.
Nadia: Ronan . . .
Mila was all smiles, probably speaking fondly of her sadistic papa to the only one here who would listen—and only then because he wanted to get his dick wet. The scene was beginning to annoy the fuck out of me.
I wasn’t doing a single thing, but I really didn’t have time for this.
I knocked on the glass. When both of their gazes flicked to me, I gave Pavel a treacherous look. He swallowed, said something curt to Mila, and walked off, leaving my muddy captive to glare at me alone. Her transparent eyes must be poisonous. A single look from her pierced my chest and spread something heavy and greedy throughout.
My gaze told her, Get inside right now.
Her silent response wasn’t important because it didn’t include a hint of “submit,” “slave,” or “anal.” Mila’s glare intensified before she complied and walked toward the front of the house.
Nadia: Are you ignoring me because you’re jealous?
I ran a thumb across my jaw, not knowing what that felt like, but I improvised.
Me: Fuming. Can barely speak.
Nadia: You’re a jerk.
Me: I’m busy. Stop texting me.
Nadia: Busy doing what?
Me:
Nadia: ARGH!
I sat behind my desk and tried to get a clear head before breakfast. My gaze caught on a book on the desktop, and I picked it up. Paradise Lost, in which God won and D’yavol lost. A small smile appeared. I should make Mila read it to me while I fucked her.
nedovtipa
(n.) someone who can’t take a hint
I watched Ronan pour milk into his bowl of Fruit Loops. I didn’t know what was more bizarre: the fact he’d actually imported the American product, or the sight of his murderous, tattooed fingers lifting a spoonful of rainbow-colored cereal to his mouth.
When I continued to stare at him, his gaze lifted to mine, a charming brow rose, and then an animated crunch of cereal and teeth sounded. The sight was disarming, inflating a kernel of humor in my stomach, and my lips tingled at the reminder of his mouth on them. I crossed my thigh-high sock clad legs to que
ll the heat rising.
“Cat got your tongue, kotyonok?”
I feigned apathy at the ridiculous idiom, but inside, a nervous energy vibrated beneath my skin, flaring between yesterday’s humiliation and a heat too familiar to what I once felt for him.
“I have a headache,” I lied.
“You want to know the best remedy I’ve found for that?”
“Child sacrifice?”
“A good fuck.”
I knew that was coming, but his crude words still slid through my veins like hot water. “I’m not sure where I’d find that around here, so, please, point me in the right direction.”
“We’re not going to talk about how you grinded on my cock yesterday?”
A flush washed up my neck, but I still managed to pop the P on, “Nope.”
“A-plus on creativity, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
He chuckled, and after the soft laugh filled the corners of the room, he pushed the box of cereal and almond milk toward me.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. “Eat.”
I glared at him for a second but, knowing this wasn’t a battle I wanted to start, I acquiesced and poured a bowl, ignoring the stupid sensation that surfaced at the idea he still cared enough to force me to eat. My heart should be committed.
Frustrated with all these feelings, I decided to do the bare minimum and pick through the dry cereal with my fingers, eating one piece at a time and as slowly as possible. Holding his annoyed stare, I put a Fruit Loop in my mouth with a saucy crunch.
I didn’t know if he wanted to smile or kill me. “The last man who tested me the way you do is floating in the Moskva in seven different pieces.”
A bite of cereal caught in my throat, but I refused to cough or look away. Even having seen Ronan murder, I sometimes forgot the type of man he was. Maybe my view was distorted by the side effects of captivity, or by his smile, laugh, and handsome face. Although, deep down, I knew it wasn’t those things.
The Darkest Temptation Page 19