The next morning, I flew home to Miami.
I’d rented an apartment in the downtown area but had yet to furnish it with anything more than a mattress. I knew I wouldn’t be staying in Miami, but I was unsure of where I belonged yet.
In my heart, I knew.
I had a lot of time to think these past four months, and I now understood with a certainty where I belonged and what I wanted. Though I hadn’t heard a word from Ronan since his last note. Insecurity had wedged itself in my chest with the belief he didn’t have the same feelings anymore and that maybe it really was proshchay.
I’d rather live with a little hope than with outright rejection.
A cabbie picked me up at the airport, and I gave him the address to Emma’s place, anxiety taking over. Emma had told me everything was perfectly fine on the phone last night, but there was a nervous edge to her voice and lots of hissing in the background. I definitely needed to figure out a better place for Khaos to stay when I was away.
Absently gazing through the window, the sight outside raised the hair on my arms, and I blurted, “Stop here.”
The cabbie thought I was crazy by the look he cast me through the rearview mirror, but he pulled over on the side of the road and let me out after I shoved some cash into his hand.
I walked across the street and onto the grassy plot of land where the carnival looked to be setting up. The carneys gave me odd glances while they worked on half-mast tents, unloaded amusement rides, and crammed massive stuffed prizes on the game shelves.
The trailer looked exactly the same as it had six years ago: sun-faded exterior, an ominous red door, and purple beaded curtains.
With conviction, I walked up the warped metal stairs and knocked. There was no response, so I knocked again. Curses and grumbles came from inside, and then the door flew open, revealing Madame Richie dressed in a nightgown with a lit cigarette in her hand.
“Vat do you vant?” she snapped.
“A refund,” I demanded.
With a roll of her eyes, she stabbed a finger at the crudely designed sign taped to the trailer that said, “No Refunds,” in bright red letters.
“Goodvye now.” She tried to shut the door in my face, but I kept it open with my foot.
“Your sign should have a disclaimer saying once you go in, you’ll never get out,” I growled. “You’ve haunted me worse than any horror flick I’ve ever seen. Worse than Saws.” She didn’t blink. “And I’m demanding a refund. Right. Now.” I was breathing a little harshly after that speech, but this confrontation had been a long time coming.
“Haunted, eh?” She inhaled on her cigarette, slowly blew out the smoke, and let the door fall open as she ventured inside the trailer. “Come in. We discuss this refund.”
All I wanted was my dang fifty bucks back as if its return would erase her presence in my life, but it seemed I wasn’t getting it yet, so reluctantly, I ended up following her inside.
Madame Richie took a seat at the round table in the corner and assessed me with a long look. “Ah, I do think I remember your face.”
I stared at her, unimpressed. “I would hope so. Because I won’t forget you for the rest of my life.”
“This is doing vonders for my ego.” She seemed genuinely pleased as she gestured to the chair across from her with her smoking cigarette. “Have a seat.”
I hesitated. This woman was a ghost who’d followed me around for years, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to sit down with a phantom.
Her dark, painted-on brow rose. “You vant refund. You sit.”
The last time I stood here, I was a naïve fourteen-year-old cheerleader. Madame Richie may have given my young brain something to soak up like a sponge, but I wasn’t the same girl anymore. And I wanted my refund, damnit, so I slid into the chair across from her.
“You vill have to remind me vhat I foretold for you.”
“You said I would find the man meant for me and that he would take my breath away.”
She blinked false lashes. And then she laughed, head thrown back in pure amusement, cigarette perched between her fingers. Her laugh didn’t disturb me this time. It raised my ire as she laughed so hard a tear ran down her cheek. Because the suspicion I always had flashed in front of me like a neon sign.
I clenched my teeth. “I knew it! I knew that was one of your generic responses.”
Suddenly, she sobered, though still fighting her amusement as she wiped the tear away with sun-wrinkled fingers. “I plead the fifth.”
“Of course you do,” I grumbled.
She ashed her cigarette into a coffee cup. “I cannot offer you refund. But since I have distressed you, I can give you another reading.”
I scowled. “Are you crazy? Why would I want another reading when the last one wasn’t even genuine, and it also ruined my life?”
“How do you know it vas not genuine if it has distressed you so? It may have been fate.”
Fate. Please. Madame Richie just got lucky.
She inhaled, and smoke whispered from her lips with the words. “That is the deal. Take it or leave it.”
I wanted closure from this visit.
I wanted to leave without her laughter over my head.
“I suggest you take it,” she said. “I do think I see great things in your future.”
Madame Richie was dangling a carrot on a string. Or rather, a piece of dog poop. But I guessed I was in such an awkward place in my life, I was interested to hear what generic foretelling she would come up with.
“Fine,” I answered, but then I narrowed my eyes. “But no laughing. Not a single chuckle,” I warned seriously.
It was clear she wanted to do exactly that, but she held it in by pressing her thin lips together. “Let us begin then.”
She moved the cloth-covered crystal ball to the center of the table and pulled off the cover with a flourish. She sure knew how to play the part.
She took a long look at me, then peered in to the ball with concentration. Tilted her head. No smoke appeared like it did last time. She probably didn’t have time to prep her parlor tricks since I’d arrived unexpectedly.
Lifting her head, she inhaled on her cigarette and deadpanned, “You are pregnant.”
I stared at her drily. “If I was pregnant, my stomach would be nearly as big as a basketball right now.”
She pursed her lips. “Could be small baby.”
“No.” Ronan’s baby? Yeah, right.
“Vorth a shot.” She shrugged.
She moved the crystal ball aside. “I do not see much now, so let us try the cards.” I didn’t know why I was still here, besides the fact I wanted her to work for the torment she’d caused me.
Madame Richie shuffled the tarot cards, the cigarette dangling from her lips. “So vat do you vant to know?”
Déjà vu on steroids slipped over my skin like electricity, raising the hair on the back of my neck. She asked me the exact thing six years ago, though instead of answering my question with something legitimate, she gave me a tiresome response about finding a man. I decided to ask the same thing again.
“I want to know what my purpose is in life.”
She raised a brow as if she found the question entirely bland, picked a card from the top of the deck, and set it faceup on the table.
I stared at it, my stomach on the floor.
The Devil.
A puff of Madame Richie’s cigarette smoke circled the card, a little humor in her voice. “Vell . . . this is interesting.”
Calmly, I got to my feet and headed to the door.
“That vill be fifty dollars,” she hollered after me.
raison d’être
(n.) a reason for existing
I took a Lyft ride to pick up Khaos on my way to The Moorings. Sweet Emma’s hair was sticking out in every direction when she calmly told me, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for him.”
Khaos came to sit by my side, acting as innocent as could be, but one of the cats shooting a glare at him was missing a large tuft of fur.
I apologized profusely, feeling awful for leaving Khaos with Emma. Though I knew he wouldn’t do well in a boarding kennel. I had no idea what to do with him the next time I had to leave, but I had two weeks to think about it before my next international shoot in Jamaica.
On the way to The Moorings, I thought of Madame Richie and her stupid tarot card. I mentally tried to figure out the odds of her drawing that card. I imagined all kinds of crazy ideas—like she’d watched me from behind trees for years and then played The Devil to unsettle me.
Frustrated with my musings, I exhaled and told myself it was just a coincidence. A freaky coincidence . . . But I refused to think about it again.
Khaos and I stood in front of my childhood home. I wasn’t thrilled about being here again, though I needed to grab the important things—such as my high school diploma, my birth certificate, other accolades I was proud of . . . and maybe a few pairs of shoes.
When we entered through the front door, it was clear the electricity had been turned off. No lights. No water. And the worst: no A/C. The house radiated heat beneath the hot summer sun.
I grabbed a water bottle from my bag and poured a bowl for Khaos. Panting, he plopped down on the cool stone floor, not used to the high Miami temperatures.
Finding a cardboard box, I dumped out the paperwork inside and filled it with everything I wanted to keep. When I was finished, I came down the stairs and told Khaos, “Come on. You can take a dip in the bay to cool down.”
As if he understood the words, he jumped up, tail wagging.
Jostling the box in my hands to open the door, I mused aloud, “Maybe we should move up north where it’s cooler. What about New York?”
Khaos didn’t look impressed.
“Chicago?” I asked him while shutting the door behind us. “Or Aspen?”
“What about Moscow?” The familiar Russian accent slid down my spine and shook the beat of my heart.
The box slipped from my fingers. The items inside fell out onto the pavement, but I could only focus on the presence behind me. My pulse pounded in my throat. It couldn’t be him—not here in The Moorings, where I stared across the bay toward Russia dreaming of something I hadn’t yet known existed.
Breathless, I turned around.
Ronan stood in front of a black car parked at the curb. Dressed in Oxxford. Hands in his pockets. His hair gleamed blue beneath the Miami sun, though the light didn’t touch his eyes fringed by dark lashes. They called him D’yavol, but there could be a halo above his head for as perfect as he looked to me right now.
Waves washed against the rocks, but the sound wasn’t lonely . . . not with this man on the same side of the Atlantic. Those cartoon hearts coalesced into one and burst from my chest.
I didn’t even think.
I ran across the yard and jumped into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He had to take a step back to keep his balance.
He chuckled roughly. “I wasn’t expecting this response. I even rehearsed and everything.”
I pressed my face into his neck, my entire body shaking. He felt so right, so warm, so comforting, the backs of my eyes burned. Tears streamed down my cheeks, the contentment in my chest blowing up like a balloon.
“Fuck,” he rasped, his hand trembling when he slid it into my hair and cradled the back of my head. “Ya skuchal po tebe.” I missed you.
“Ya tozhe skuchala po tebe,” I breathed through tears before pulling back to see his face. I missed you too.
“Your Russian has gotten better.”
“I’ve been studying.” Hoping. Dreaming.
He wiped away a few tears while I clung to him, refusing to ever let go.
“That’ll help,” he said coarsely.
“Why?” I asked, my tears abating.
“Because you’re coming home with me.”
I raised a brow. “As your captive?”
That villainous look so akin to him touched his eyes, and then he said three words that stopped my heart dead in its tracks.
“Kak moya zhena.” As my wife.
I stared at him for multiple seconds as a combustion of thoughts and feelings overwhelmed me. I slid down his body to reach solid ground and took a step back to think, looking everywhere but at Ronan. Albert sat in the driver’s seat of the car. I wondered if he knew his boss had lost his mind. Khaos nudged the side of my leg as he sat beside me, giving Ronan a distrusting expression.
“Wow,” I finally managed, pulling my gaze back to Ronan’s. “That’s a massive leap. Usually, it goes captive, servant, despised acquaintance, seduced lover—”
“Those all sound great,” he cut me off, “but I’ve had four months”—his eyes darkened as if the time had been worse than prison—“to think about this, and I know what I want.”
“And you want a wife,” I said slowly.
“I could buy a wife from a catalog if I wanted to,” he returned harshly. “I want you. And if I can’t have you as my captive, I want the next best thing.”
A laugh lifted in my throat because . . . well, this was not how I thought I’d get proposed to. Though it was sure beating the proposal I knew Carter would have come up with.
“Which is a wife,” I said as if I understood his frame of mind.
“Da. There are legal ties involved.”
“Ah. I get it now.” I laughed. “So as this theoretical wife of yours, do I get to move freely around the house?”
His eyes narrowed. “There’s no ‘theoretical’ about it.”
“Okay, but I want to know how this would work. Do I get to watch TV, or do I have to ask you first?”
He chuckled. “Obviously, you have some trauma you need to sort out.”
“Blame yourself for that,” I returned, then I swallowed. “I don’t know about this though . . . It’s crazy, Ronan.”
He gripped my throat and tipped my head up to meet my eyes. “Ty svela menya s uma. I teper tebye nuzhno razbiratsa s posledstviyami.” You made me crazy. And now you have to deal with the consequences.
He was using the excuse I had once before, so I couldn’t even complain. I loved hearing Russian from his lips so much it melted my insides, but I couldn’t be distracted right now. I needed to think.
“English.”
“Nyet. I can’t say this in English.” His gaze flickered with conflict, like this wasn’t easy for him to vocalize.
“Say what?”
The fire, the turmoil, the truth in his eyes—it told me everything, and my heart floated in my chest.
I ran my thumb across the scar on his bottom lip. “Ya lyublyu tebya . . . Those words?” Then I realized he’d probably never said them. I’d even bet he’d never heard them either. The knowledge constricted my chest.
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” I said softly. “So much.”
His grip on my throat tightened possessively while my caress across his lips grew softer. I didn’t need the words from him. I didn’t want to make him feel as if he had to say something he wasn’t comfortable with.
“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to—”
“Fuck, woman.” He pulled me in to kiss me deeply—just to shut me up, I think. Still, I sighed into his mouth, heat washing to my toes. I went in for more, but he pulled back and skimmed his lips across mine. “Ya lyublyu tebya. Tak sil’no chto ne mogu dumat’ kogda ty daleko ot menya.” I love you. So much I can’t think when you’re away from me.
Months ago, I didn’t believe in suspicions. Yet so much had convinced me otherwise. Maybe I was wrong about happily ever afters too. Maybe they really did exist. Just not with a shining knight in armor, but with the villain.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I brushed my lips against his. “Yes.”
He tilted my head back to see my eyes. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll be your wife.”
He groaned in satisfaction and kissed me so deeply he stole my breath. I was burning up on the lawn, and it wasn’t from the Miami heat
. I pulled back breathlessly to say, “But I have some conditions.”
Slightly amused, he waited for me to continue.
“The TV thing. I really want to watch it whenever I want.”
He laughed. “Tough negotiator.”
“And I have a career now. I model for—”
“I know.”
I raised a brow, and then suspicion set in and popped my bubble. I had doubts about how I got into the modeling industry so quickly, and it was confirmed by a single passing flicker in his eyes.
“I thought it was divine intervention,” I grumbled. “Now I know it was diabolic intervention.”
He chuckled.
“You really don’t have a problem with the modeling?”
“I don’t like the idea of the world staring at your body.” His eyes narrowed. “And if someone tells you to lose your ass, there’ll be a new missing person’s report added to the list. But if you like what you do, I’ll deal.”
I fought a smile. “That was a more aggressive response than I expected, but somehow more passive as well.”
“You won’t call me passive when we’re not on the street and you’re reminded of making me wait four months.”
I raised a brow. “I didn’t make you wait.”
“Theoretically,” he returned. “I configured how much space a woman would need from her kidnapper before he proposed to her.”
I laughed. “And you came up with four months?”
He ran a thumb across his upturned lip. “The results were inconclusive, so I waited until I couldn’t anymore.”
I pressed my face against his chest, soaking in his smell I’d missed so much. I couldn’t stop myself from saying it again. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”
He made a noise of satisfaction. “Ya byl tyoim pervym I ya budu tvoim poslednim.” I was your first, and I will be your last.
“Don’t you want to know if I’ve been with anyone after you?”
“You haven’t.” The response was so confident, it told me one thing.
“Who was watching me?” I accused. “I would notice Albert. He’s bigger than a tree.”
“Viktor.” Ronan didn’t even look apologetic about having me stalked.
“And what would Viktor have done if I took a male model back to my place?”
The Darkest Temptation Page 40