His anger was a whisper compared to the other man’s in the room. And both of them were beginning to make me burn in frustration, forcing the next words from my mouth.
“So why don’t I just marry Carter’s father then?”
A long pause. “He is married.”
“Bummer. I’ve learned I have a thing for older guys.” I let my eyes meet Ronan’s, which glowed with a dark, violent light. Unable to hold his intensity, I looked away.
“Papa . . . I don’t want to marry Carter.”
“You do not understand, Mila. If you don’t want to live on the streets, you will marry him. There will be no money left when I’m gone. I raised you right, but I’m afraid I screwed up when it comes to your brothers.”
Brothers.
I’d reached a place where I didn’t even blink at the knowledge I had brothers. Plural. It felt like my entire life had been a lie, and this was where the real me began.
“They will clean everything out, Mila. The house in Miami. Everything. I need to know you’re taken care of.”
I rubbed the cold goose bumps on my thigh. “I thought you told me Ivan would take care of me.”
He was silent. So silent, my heart dropped.
“Ivan has other demands to take care of now.”
What he meant was Ivan didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. It felt like someone had stabbed me in the chest. I may not have loved Ivan romantically, but I did as a friend. I was losing my papa and my best friend. Alone. I wasn’t even alone yet, but the absence hollowed out my bones.
“I wish it was different. But this is the way it has to be.”
“My brothers . . . they won’t help me?”
A pause. “I’m sorry, angel.”
My heart left my body to float in the distance while tears poured down my cheeks. Rejection dug its claws into my cold skin.
“You will do this for me, Mila. Don’t let me die not knowing what will happen to you.”
I wasn’t going to marry Carter. Not if I was so poor I had to live on the streets. I would never subject myself to the life I’d felt so lost in. But I also didn’t have the heart to deny my papa’s last wish. Even if it was a lie.
“Okay,” I said softly. “I will.”
Ronan gripped the headboard, and I heard a crack.
Papa exhaled. “I am glad, angel. I have to go now.”
“Wait,” I blurted. The question needed no permission. It escaped from the depths of me like a volcano. “Was the woman you murdered that night my mother?”
I didn’t need to clarify I spoke of the blonde lying in a puddle of blood on our library floor. He knew who I meant by the sticky silence on the other end of the line, but he never got a chance to reply.
Ronan grabbed the phone and ended the call.
Numb, I sat there, ice spreading through my veins. Because I knew the truth. I knew my papa killed my mother. I knew it was her blood that stained my stuffed animal and childhood memories.
And Ronan knew too.
induratize
(v.) to harden one’s heart against love
“How did you know?” I asked Ronan, who walked away from me, the lines of his back as tense as granite. He knew I was asking about my mother and that my papa murdered her practically in front of my eyes.
“I don’t know anything,” was all he said before going into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him.
I stared at his absence and realized he didn’t want me to know the truth. He was trying to protect my view of my father. He knew how much my papa meant to me, and while I had no doubt Ronan was going through with his revenge, he still didn’t want to mar the vision I had of my father.
My papa killed my mother.
He callously shot her in the same house I was in.
My chest held an ache so sharp, the pain searched for holes to spread through. It was hard to fathom how the father I knew and loved could do that—though, in the back of my mind, I must have always known. The knowledge warped everything I thought I understood. Thinking about it sent a harsh throb through my head. I couldn’t deal with this right now, so I exhaled deeply and forced it to the back of my mind.
What came to the forefront was what Ronan was trying to do for me. He couldn’t act like he cared now I loved his every shade of black. He couldn’t throw out so much gray while I already struggled to contain the expanding heart in my chest.
He couldn’t do this to me.
He could use, restrain, and torture me—but he couldn’t act like he cared. Not now. Not when those cartoon hearts threatened to rain down on me in the shape of bricks.
Chest burning, I got to my feet and stormed to the bathroom, throwing open the door. Head bowed, Ronan stood in the shower, the water running red rivulets down his naked body.
“I know you’re trying to protect my feelings,” I snapped. “And I think it’s disgusting.”
Slowly, he cast me a dark look. I was dealing with D’yavol now. Good. He held onto his gray tightly—as well as his response when he wasn’t interested enough to reply. His expression made me feel unwelcome, so I continued.
“You’re truly the worst kidnapper I’ve ever met.”
His eyes flashed before he looked away to continue washing off the priest’s blood on his chest. “Coming from the girl who gives all captives a bad name. Spreading your sunshine all over my house, apologizing every step of the way. Let’s not forget the part where you came to your kidnapper’s room and begged him to fuck you. At least you’re not a cliché.”
Heat washed up my back. “It’s called Stockholm syndrome. What’s your excuse? Mobster Decency Disorder?”
Teeth clenched, his narrowed gaze returned to me. “Is Stockholm syndrome responsible for the lapse of memory you’re fucking engaged?”
“Technically, I’m not engaged. And it’s not as if it came up organically.”
His eyes were dark pools. “Technically meaning yet.”
I was the one who was supposed to be angry, and now he was? For what? I doubted his noble conscience would fault sleeping with a nearly engaged woman. The thought of him having protested out of pure honor if he knew was almost comical, but I didn’t have any humor left inside me.
I’d given this man my virginity and multiple other firsts. Didn’t he know he would haunt me forever? Apparently, it wasn’t enough for him. He had to control me from afar, guaranteeing I’d never forget or replace him while he moved on with others like Nadia. The idea roiled in my stomach, making me nauseous.
Ronan would forget me eventually. And that felt like the biggest rejection of all, searing the very core of my heart. Stinging pride was what forced the next words out.
“At least Carter doesn’t murder people for a living.”
Ronan made an unamused noise, practically baring his teeth at me. “Fuck you, Mila.”
I bristled. “Fuck you! And fuck your decency too. I’m so over it.”
He was on me so fast I didn’t even get a chance to escape. Not that I would. I didn’t fear D’yavol, and that was one of the biggest problems of all.
“You don’t want my decency?” he growled in my ear, pressing his wet body against mine. “So be it.”
A shiver ghosted down my spine. The anger, the truth about my papa and mother, the anxiety of the future—it was tangled; overwhelming; draining. I didn’t have the energy or desire to struggle when Ronan bent me over the vanity. The marble dug into my hips, but the hollow ache in my chest overrode the pain.
Ronan jerked my thong down my thighs, pushed my shirt to my hips, and shoved into me in one thrust. I hissed a noise of half-pleasure, half-pain, as his hand collared my throat. Water dripped down my collarbone like tears.
I braced my hands on the mirror while he fucked me hard from behind, each slap of flesh radiating his anger. There was no intimacy involved. Hardly any pleasure. But I took his rage, my heart suddenly deciding it needed him in any way it could have him.
He yanked my head back by my hair, his grow
l at my ear. “Malen’kaya lgunishka . . . fucking engaged.” The words sounded like a curse, but a subtle note in his voice reached my heart, tugging at each frayed edge. Beneath his fury, a hint of vulnerability lay.
I’d found another weakness.
He was weak when he was left behind.
Breathing harsh pants, my fingers slipped down the mirror, the words escaping my throat. “I never wanted the engagement.”
“Well, congratulations are in order then,” he gritted, “because it’s not happening.”
The word “congratulations” hit me with a mocking load of vulnerability: My papa murdered my mother and would soon be killed himself. Congratulations . . . Ivan hated me. Congratulations . . . I’d be left destitute by my own brothers. Congratulations . . . Ronan would again be on the other side of the lonely Atlantic. Congratulations . . .
The final truth sent hot tears down my cheeks. I dipped my head so Ronan couldn’t see them. My fingers slipped farther down the mirror as I cried for an uncertain future and for a man fucking me physically and emotionally.
Ronan went still for a second before slowly tilting my head up so he could see my reflection. A smudged mirror. Red-tinted tears streaked paths through the dried blood on my face. Inked fingers collared my throat.
“Fuck.” He pulled out of me, turned me around, and framed my face with his hands. “Did I hurt you?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t mean just physically, Mila.”
His words burned the backs of my eyes, and I shook my head again.
“Why the tears?”
Throat thick, I simply lifted a shoulder, biting my lip to hold in the sudden urge to sob, but the gentleness of his hands on my face broke me like a dam.
With a rough noise, Ronan pushed my face against his chest. “I’ve never met a woman who cries as much as you. You’re like a faucet.” He let me sob into his chest for a long time. When the tears faded, he asked, “Is this about your papa?”
I swallowed. “Some of it.”
“The rest?”
I didn’t want to think of my father/mother/murder situation, so I avoided it. “Ivan hates me now . . .” It went silent for a second, but he waited for me to continue, somehow knowing there was more. “I always wanted family . . . siblings.” My voice was thick with emotion. “And it sounds like they hate me too.” A single tear escaped.
Ronan tipped my chin to meet his eyes, brushing away the tear with a thumb. “Lions don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.”
My body quieted, every cell in me soaking up his words and leaving a weightlessness behind. He was being decent again, but I didn’t complain this time.
It was too late for that.
I loved his black and his gray and every shade in between. I loved him so much it was embedded in my skin. I loved him, and even knowing I would lose him, it felt like my heart would simply stop if I didn’t tell him.
With an exhale, I opened my mouth, but it slowly closed by what I saw in his eyes—or rather, what he saw in mine. His softness evaporated, and the cool, insensitive D’yavol returned. Without a word, he walked away, leaving me wet, cold, and drowning beneath the heavy weight of rejection.
I didn’t know how long I stood there before I caught my reflection in the mirror. Numb, I turned to meet it face-on. It had to be residual tears. Or a trick of the light. Though I knew it wasn’t either of those things when Madame Richie’s laughter returned, resounding in my ears. Her cackles turned into a witchy crescendo of “congratulations” while I stared into my ice-blue eyes holding a glimmer they’d always lacked.
I guessed sparks came from passion.
Even ones that eventually destroyed you.
The mirror shattered with one strike of my hand. It pinged like untuned music notes as I walked out of the room.
acrasia
(n.) the lack of self-control
Yulia stopped me in the doorway of my bedroom, giving me a derisive perusal from my head to my toes.
“We have guests,” she said sternly. “You must do something with your”—she flicked a hand at my chest—“bosom.”
I looked down at said bosom and saw nothing wrong with it. I was even wearing pants for a change—high-waisted bell bottoms. One would think Yulia would take that as a win. I knew Ronan would.
I lifted my gaze to hers. “They’ve been called ‘boobs’ for decades, FYI. And considering the fact I was tied to a bed naked the last time we had guests, I find your request a bit hypocritical.”
She put her bony hands on her hips. “That was only in guest room. You were not flaunting your bosom around the house.”
Spread-eagled naked for guests to see in the guest room:
Not wearing a bra beneath my T-shirt downstairs:
Made sense.
I sighed. “What would you like me to do with my bosom, Yulia?”
“Strap it in a bra,” she said as if it was obvious. “And not some see-through thing only meant to arouse men’s urges.”
When she began a spiel about the necessary amount of support a bosom needed, I put up a finger to quiet her and said, “I’m taking this into consideration.”
She scowled, tapping her foot impatiently. After a longer than necessary pause, I finally dropped my finger.
“Well?” she snapped.
“No.” I brushed past her and down the hall.
“Insufferable hussy,” she mumbled.
“Old bat,” I shot back.
I headed toward the dining room for breakfast but stopped in the hall when I saw Gianna and Kat on the drawing room couch with a massive platter of food in front of them.
“Mila!” Gianna exclaimed, a sly smile forming as she looked me over. “I told you the next time we saw each other, there’d be less ropes and more clothes.” Then a frown appeared, and she snapped her fingers like an opportunity lost. “I knew I should have bet on it, but you didn’t seem in the right mindset for a wager.”
I had the feeling she was serious.
“Apparently, I’m destitute, so your winnings would be slim.”
“No worries. I’ve already skimmed the top off Yulia’s pocketbook this morning,” she said. “Don’t let her poor housekeeper ploy fool you. She has a mountain of five-thousand-ruble notes in her closet, and she safeguards them like a troll.”
I’d believe anything these days.
I took a seat in the armchair across from her and stole a grape from the platter, pulling my legs up underneath me. “Do I want to know what you were betting on?”
Gianna pursed her lips in thought. “I usually love the power of playing with people’s minds, but I like you, so I’m going to keep this one a secret for now.”
My mind was a complete mess as it was, so I didn’t complain. “Thanks, I guess.” I plopped the grape in my mouth.
She laughed.
My stomach was in such knots from the earlier phone call and scene with Ronan, I had to force the grape down my throat. But in an effort to pretend my world wasn’t crashing down around me, I filled a small plate with fresh fruit. As I did, my attention turned to Kat, who was shoving a folded rainbow-colored pancake in her mouth, her eyes on her demented princess game.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” I said sincerely, knowing she’d be a jaw-dropper someday. Or jawbreaker.
Gianna cast a warm smile at Kat and ran a hand down her pigtail. “I’ll take that as a compliment since she and I seem to look a lot alike. But I blame her personality on her papa one hundred percent.”
A perfectly timed, “Cut off his head!” sounded from the phone, pulling laughs from us both.
When the amusement faded, Gianna made an uncomfortable expression and rubbed her pregnant belly. The baby was either massive like his papa and uncle, or she was close to popping any day now.
“When are you due?” I asked.
“Three weeks, but I have a feeling he’s never going to come out. When I get home tomorrow, I need to start doing yoga.” She sighed as if the thought p
ut her out. “But that’s probably not going to happen because I’ve been excommunicated from my studio, and I’ve never been good at motivating myself.”
“Surely, there’s more than one yoga studio in New York City.”
She frowned. “I guess I should have said I’ve been excommunicated from all the studios.”
“Oh . . .”
After a short pause, we both laughed again.
Gianna radiated warmth, and I already felt lighter, but any chance of a better mood crashed and burned when a familiar sultry voice entered the equation.
“I hope I am not interrupting anything.”
Slowly, I slid my gaze to the doorway to see Nadia in the flesh. Her black hair was clipped to one side in a sleek wave that reached her waist. Dark red lips. Kohled eyes. She wore a nude wrap dress beneath a long mink coat. I wondered if Ronan had bought it for her. The idea wrenched my stomach, threatening to expel the single grape inside.
The opera singer was gorgeous, exuding sex from every pore. She was the kind of woman all women compared themselves to. A look at her made one feel lacking on impact. Why would Ronan spare me a glance when this woman was around? I rejected the thought just as fast as my new family rejected me.
Je suis parfaite comme je suis. Tu es parfaite comme tu es. Nous sommes parfaites comme nous sommes. I am perfect as I am. You are perfect as you are. We are perfect as we are.
Feeling the French work its magic, I pulled my gaze to Gianna just in time to see her roll her eyes. “Of course not, Nadia. It seems you’ve been cordially invited in anyway.”
Noticing the sarcasm in her voice, I finally spotted Pavel standing behind Nadia. He shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, Nadia wasn’t supposed to be here, but it seemed he didn’t know how to remove her. He was taller than her even though she wore five-inch stilettos, so, clearly, his turmoil was an emotional battle and not a physical one.
“Oh, good,” Nadia said with a charming Russian accent, waltzing toward us. “I do not know how I forget how long the drive here is every time.” She pursed her lips. “Though usually, I am not alone, and I do think they say time flies when you are having fun.”
The Darkest Temptation Page 35