My heart beat. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
When the car drew to a stop, Ronan didn’t waste a second. He picked me up and carried me into the hospital. I watched the doctors and nurses rush toward us and throw out questions in Russian. I couldn’t make sense of anything besides what Ronan had threatened as a cold weightlessness consumed me, tugging, pulling, trying to drag me down.
“Don’t do that to Khaos,” I pleaded weakly, interrupting the medical staff.
“Don’t die, and I won’t,” he responded while following the doctors down the hall.
He wasn’t being fair.
“Ronan . . .” A tear slipped down my cheek.
He wiped it away, his tone coarse. “Those are the conditions. You choose.”
How could I choose not to die? Today might be my day, and even D’yavol couldn’t stop fate in its tracks. I may have never gotten the family or love I’d always wanted, but at least I could say I gave it my best shot.
Ronan lay me on a gurney, and a nurse rushed me into an OR room. When a surgeon tried to stop Ronan from entering, he pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the doctor’s head.
“Yesli ona umret, ty tozhe umresh’,” he growled. If she dies, you die too.
The surgeon swallowed, stepped out of his way, and curtly nodded to an area where Ronan could stand.
A nurse put a mask on my face to induce sleep. I tried to pull it off, but it took little effort for her to hold it on while speaking to me in Russian. The gas started to pull my consciousness down, down . . . Though when I met Ronan’s eyes, I knew what I needed to say. Ya lyublyu tebya. I love you. In the end, only one word escaped with the fear I’d never wake up.
“Proshchay . . .”
The last thing I heard before the anesthesia took me under was, “Fuck your proshchay, Mila.”
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The steady beeps that drew me from a hazy sleep alerted me to the fact I didn’t die. Or Satan just had a sick sense of humor.
My body was in a tranquil, painless state, but I hesitated to open my eyes as my imagination went wild. Maybe the surgeons had to amputate a limb. Maybe I was paralyzed. Maybe I was waking from a thirty-year coma. Unfortunately, what I saw was worse than what my imagination could cook up.
Alexei Mikhailov and D’yavol sat in the same room.
Papa occupied the chair beside the door, wearing a charcoal suit and a black eye. He was staring at his hands, radiating a sense of remorse. I felt nothing when I looked at him. Not nostalgia. Not respect. Not affection.
Everything he’d done tainted my view of him. In truth, I didn’t think he’d ever planned to sacrifice himself for me. The phone call was just another lie and manipulation to make Ronan believe he’d conceded. My papa chose to put me in the middle of his war, unconcerned with the fact something could have happened to me. And it had.
Whether he lived or died, my mourning him was over.
My gaze slid to Ronan, who sat beside my bed wearing Tom Ford and tired eyes. Silently, he watched me. I somehow knew he’d stayed by my side for as long as I was unconscious. This man I once hated had become the man I loved.
Ronan was wrong.
I couldn’t bear the thought of living without him.
It terrified me, this love that threatened dependence. The devotion was a bright glow that warmed my soul, though it also left me feeling vulnerable, as if my chest would simply tear open if I loved him anymore.
I didn’t regret taking that bullet for Ronan, but the fact I’d almost died forced me to look at life from a different perspective. The truth was, I hadn’t truly lived yet. I’d experienced nothing besides the view of closed golden gates, the inside of a Russian mansion, and falling in love.
If I didn’t find myself, love would be all I’d be.
I knew what I had to do, though just the thought wrenched my heart. The fact I was about to hit one of Ronan’s weaknesses made me want to throw up. He was the strongest man I’d ever met, and still, I couldn’t stand the idea of hurting him.
“I guess Khaos doesn’t have to go to the pound,” I finally said, my raspy tone hiding the heartache inside.
My papa’s head shot up at my voice, relief filling his eyes.
Ronan’s stoic expression didn’t falter. My stomach clenched when I realized he knew what I’d come to terms with at the same time I had.
“How long was I out?” I asked.
“Three days,” Ronan said emotionlessly.
My papa got to his feet, came to my bedside, and grabbed my hand attached to an IV. “I am so sorry, angel. I am so—” His voice cracked. “I will never forgive myself for this.”
I stared at his hand holding mine, unable to remember the last time he’d touched me intentionally. And all it took was being shot by his own gun to gain his affection.
Numb, I pulled my hand away. “I forgive you, Papa.”
His pained eyes found mine. “I always wondered how I made a girl as compassionate as you.”
“I’m compassionate, Papa, but not forgetful. I don’t hate you—not for what you did to my mother, not for lying, being absent, or for putting me here.” My voice was unnaturally calm. “But I will not forget.”
He soaked in my words silently.
“You will always be my father . . . but I think it’s best if we go our separate ways.” It surprised me I could say those words without any emotion. Though I wasn’t the same girl who’d boarded a plane to Moscow with hope in her eyes.
He looked a little stricken, but then sullenly nodded. “If that is what you wish.”
“It is.”
Without another word, my father walked to the door.
“Why did you do it?” I blurted.
He paused, his body tensing. He knew I wanted to know why he killed my mother. His hesitation created a heavy silence in the room, like he wasn’t sure if he should tell me the truth. In the end, I knew he did.
“She was pregnant with another man’s child.”
Then he walked out of the room and out of my life, leaving me numb at his response. “You look too much like my Tatianna . . .” His Tatianna. My papa may care for me, but he’d never truly loved me. I was simply a token of his toxic obsession with a famous opera singer. It felt like he’d abandoned me years ago, but there was a finality in the realization and watching him walk away that sent a shard of glass through my heart. The mayhem in my chest convinced me of my next conversation starter.
Staring after my papa’s retreat, I said, “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him in the parking lot.”
“I’ll pass.” Ronan’s tone was derisive.
“He knows you’re not going to harm me now. You’ve lost the upper hand.”
“He’s been here all day,” Ronan snapped. “If I wanted to kill him, I could have done it multiple times by now.”
I drew my gaze his way. The sight of him filled me with a heavy longing that spread through my veins: for him to touch me, hold me, show me he cared. Though the reminder I couldn’t have any of that felt like a blow to the chest.
I swallowed. “So you’ve given up on your revenge?”
He clenched his teeth. “You think revenge is on my mind right now?”
“You hit him,” I challenged.
“That was necessary to regain my concentration.”
“Your concentration of watching me sleep.”
“Yes,” he growled.
His response would be amusing if my heart wasn’t burning and retaliating against the decision I’d made. Nervously, I focused on messing with the tape that held my IV in my hand.
“So if revenge isn’t on your mind right now, then what is?”
“I’m waiting.”
I glanced at him. “For what?”
His eyes narrowed. “For the speech of forgiveness, ‘but it’s probably best if we part ways.’”
I looked away, unable to see the turmoil flaring in his eyes. He didn’t like
being left behind—yet it seemed he was by everyone who mattered to him. And knowing I was only another one of them tightened my throat, burning the backs of my eyes.
It wasn’t until he got to his feet and set a single heart-shaped earring on the bedside table that the panic kick-started in my chest. What was I doing? Why was I doing this? As he headed to the door, my heart screamed at me to stop him. Stop. Please stop . . . But the grip on my throat refused to let out any words.
Ronan paused in the doorway for a second. He turned his head to meet my eyes and promised, “This isn’t proshchay.”
Taking a bullet had nothing on the pain of watching him walk away from me. The ache started in my heart, this raw bleeding throb, before it clawed at the walls of my chest.
It wasn’t proshchay.
The promise didn’t matter right now.
I wanted him back. Desperation burned in my blood, demanding I run after him and tell him it was just a mistake. Frantically, I tugged at the IV in my hand as the heartache tore through me, sending sobs up my throat that wracked my chest.
It wasn’t proshchay.
Just as I pulled out the IV, the chaotic energy inside faded, leaving me so drained I could only cover my mouth as tears poured down my cheeks. I ignored the sharp throb in my stomach. A machine began to beep, alerting me to the fact a nurse would be in here soon, but I didn’t expect a dog.
Khaos jumped on the bed and lay down beside me. Sobbing, I ran my hand through his fur, hugged him tight, and said, “It isn’t proshchay . . .”
lacuna
(n.) a blank space; a missing part
The gunshot wound in my arm throbbed and bled through my shirt. I must have busted some stitches open when I punched Alexei. And then Albert, who simply opened the car door for me after Mila dismissed me from her life. I didn’t know how to get rid of this irritable, edgy sensation beneath my skin besides violence—and even that didn’t release the tight, hollow ache in my chest.
It felt like she was stealing something from me.
Pain I could stand.
Robbery I could not.
“I flew back for ‘important’ business just to watch you silently muse on all your life choices,” my brother said in Russian, sitting on my office couch. “Care to share?”
I didn’t know how to explain the feeling in any other way, so I sat back in my chair and said, “She stole from me.”
He raised a brow. “Your pet?”
“Her name is Mila,” I growled.
Kristian sipped the vodka in his glass, trying to conceal a smile. “So what’d she take? You do have some nice crystal glasses.”
I didn’t know why I’d opened my mouth. Clearly, all of this was out of my element, and my brother was loving every second of it. I narrowed my eyes and tapped my pen on the desk as that unsettling feeling clawed at my chest.
My brother watched me with a serious expression. “You may think I got the short end of the stick between us growing up, but you’ve forgotten you were the one living in closets for years or being beat up by our mother and her clients.”
I raised a brow. “Are we taking a trip down memory lane?”
“I think it’s time, don’t you?”
“No.”
“I may be slightly out of touch with human emotion, but at least I understand it.”
I glared at him. “I understand it just fine.”
“Coming from the man who rationalizes unrequited love for the Mikhailov girl to her stealing from you.”
Being accused of “love” made me feel . . . awkward, so I deflected. “Firstly, nothing here is unrequited.” If it was, I would make it requited. “Secondly, I’ve seen the Hallmark Channel. This isn’t how love works.”
Kristian laughed. “I thought I might have to explain sex tips to my younger brother. Not love.”
“Think I got the sex thing down, but thanks.”
Staring into his tumbler glass, he swirled the vodka in his glass. “I loved Gianna for years before she ever even looked at me. Love isn’t hearts and flowers. Sometimes, it fucking sucks.”
“You’re really selling this to me,” I said drily.
“I don’t have to sell it. You’ve already gone and fallen for Alexei Mikhailov’s daughter.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t.
“I know you blame yourself for what happened to me.” The silence was heavy. “You feel so guilty over that shit you can’t let yourself care for other people—because if you couldn’t protect your own brother, why should you deserve any other meaningful relationships? Well, you need to get the fuck over it.”
Sometimes, I hated his unnatural insight. Other times, it made things easier for me because I never would have said that shit out loud.
“I feel like I should be lying on a psychologist’s couch.”
“You do have a pile of trauma-induced emotional issues on top of that if you want me to get into them.”
I gave him a “fuck off” look.
He smiled. “If anything, I should have been there for you more. I was the older brother. I shouldn’t have left the second I was released—especially knowing now how fucked-up you are.”
“This is truly therapeutic.”
“Good. Now, you can stop hitting people and start rehearsing how you’re going to tell Mila you love her.”
I chuckled. “Unfortunately, there’s no mirror in here, and I need to see myself during rehearsals.”
“By the way, welcome to the club,” he said with relish. “I’ve been waiting for the day I could call you whipped.”
Fuck.
I’d always avoided the word “love” like it was a disease, but now he’d put the idea in my head, it festered.
All that random stuff that came out of my mouth when I thought she could die was true. I’d fought death more times than I could count, but I knew I’d welcome it if it ever came down between me or her. I’d warned her about being selfless, and now it seemed I was practically sacrificial in regard to her.
The sickly-sweet girl with a soft heart and love of yellow had somehow filled a blank space inside me. And I couldn’t handle the thought of her anywhere else but with me.
Pros: My crystal glasses were safe.
Cons: It might really be unrequited.
I didn’t get time to muse on it further. The door flew open. My brother and I silently watched Kostya drag in a severed head and throw it to the floor. It rolled like a lopsided bowling bowl before losing momentum and stilling in the center of the room.
“What the fuck is that?” I asked, exasperated. My office was already a fucking mess.
Kostya was breathing heavily, covered from head to toe in blood. It dripped from the knife in his hand to the floor. Agitation worked through me. I was going to need brand new carpet at this point.
“Dimitri Mikhailov.”
I stared at him blankly, though internally, I was a second away from killing him with that knife in his hand.
“Are you hearing impaired?” I growled. “Or just fucking stupid?”
I’d ordered my men to stay away from the Mikhailovs. The desire for revenge waned the moment Mila had almost died. Retaliation wasn’t a single option after I saw her bleeding out. I needed her in my life, alive, and without the tears that somehow made me feel powerless—which unfortunately meant I couldn’t just kidnap her again.
Killing her papa might push her away forever, and I refused to accept that. Though I couldn’t see Alexei dismissing his son’s murder. Fury washed through me at the impact it would cause. I couldn’t get Mila back while I was at war with her father.
Kostya clenched his teeth, but pain glittered in his eyes. “Dimitri was the one who killed Pasha on Alexei’s orders. And since you haven’t done anything but fuck his daughter, I took it into my own hands.”
I smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly one. I didn’t want to kill Kostya and leave Vadim with two deceased brothers, but there didn’t seem to be another option.
The knife slipp
ed from Kostya’s fingers, his voice thick. “Pasha was my little brother . . .” A single tear ran down his bloody cheek. “I had to do it. And I’m ready to accept the punishment.”
He was ready to die for his brother. I glanced at mine, who watched me with a drily amused expression. He wanted to know how I was going to deal with this, because he and I would have done the same for one another.
Albert appeared in the doorway, his eyes grim above the shiner I’d given him earlier today. He’d accepted the punch as if it went along with a normal “thank you” before driving me here.
“We have guests,” he said.
He didn’t have to tell me who was visiting.
“Give us a minute,” I told Albert before shooting Kostya a hard look. “You’ve fucked up bad this time. Disobey my orders or talk about Mila in that way again, and I will end you myself in the most painful way I can think of.”
Kostya swallowed.
“Now get the fuck out of here,” I growled. “I’m so disgusted with you, if Alexei is here to kill you, I’ll let him.”
Kostya didn’t need to be told twice. He disappeared out the door, leaving a blood trail like crumbs.
A moment later, Albert returned with Alexei and Ivan in tow. My shoulders tensed at the sight of Mila’s papa. I’d almost killed him when he showed up in her hospital room—not for Pasha, but for Mila. She’d stumbled into my restaurant nearly a month ago and changed my perspective on everything.
Alexei stopped in the doorway and took a long look at his son’s head on the floor, a mixture of pain and rage crossing his face. The man looked like he’d aged twenty years in a single day.
He didn’t say a word as he moved to sit on the couch across from Kristian. Alexei had always voiced his disappointment in his sons. I’d even seen him shoot Dimitri in the thigh once for fucking up. I expected revenge on the simple principle. I did not expect the man to put his face in his hands and . . .
Alexei Mikhailov was crying.
It was awkward as fuck.
I met my brother’s gaze and nodded to Dimitri’s head, telling him to do something with it—like nudge it behind the couch. He didn’t. He gave me a dry look and sipped his vodka.
The Darkest Temptation Page 38