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.
MILA
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 quell 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.
I forced the cereal down my throat and plopped another in my mouth. “I guess I’m narcissistic I’m not a man then.”
“You being a woman has nothing to do with it.”
The childhood memory of my papa’s girlfriend resurfaced, and I pulled my gaze from him, chest suddenly tight. “I don’t want special treatment.” I don’t deserve it. “You should treat me like anyone else who happens to look at you the wrong way.”
“I find your sacrificial lamb mentality nauseating.”
“I’m sure selflessness is hard for you to stomach,” I said in understanding.
“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”
“Charismatic gangster who’s an introvert at heart? Sexual deviant? A villain with a sad past I refuse to sympathize with? Check, check, check. If you were a subject on my SATs, I’d ace it.”
A hint of a laugh passed through his eyes. “I have no idea where you come up with this shit.”
What I would never tell him was, I’d always been a bit of an introvert too.
“Where I come from, you either sink or swim. I swam.” His voice pulled me into his web, demon-spun, and as strong as his knots. “Can’t say the same, can you?”
The cereal in my stomach soured. I hated how he could pick apart my flaws, my secrets, and then practically throw them in my face. I focused on my cup of tea and took a sip. Scrunching my nose at the bitter taste, I added some sugar.
“Did you enjoy your day of freedom?” he asked.
“You and I have very different definitions of ‘freedom.’”
“Maybe, but mine is the only one that matters, isn’t it?”
I didn’t know why he had to wind me up until it felt as if I would pop like a jack-in-the-box. Maybe so I’d “misbehave,” and then he’d have a reason to punish me and sate his sadistic soul.
“You can continue to have free rein of my home, but don’t engage my men.” A threat tainted his voice.
Stirring my tea, I offered him a saccharine smile. “Why? Because I’m a lowly Mikhailov who shouldn’t deign to speak?”
“Your words, not mine.”
The whimsical, mocking tune of my childhood toy played in my head as Ronan cranked the lever—not only from the degrading nuance in his voice, but because I forgot what a bastard the man was just yesterday, and I couldn’t have humiliated myself more.
“If you despise me so much just because of who my papa is, then I feel sorry for you.”
He gave a dry, amused look. “Coming from someone who spread her legs for her papa’s enemy two seconds after meeting him. Perhaps the one who should be pitied here is you.”
“That’s your opinion. And it sucks.” So did this tea. The bitterness left a thick aftertaste on my tongue.
A volatile energy condensed the room and slowed the beat of my heart. I said I wasn’t perfect, and I was beginning to learn I had a fiery temper and more pride than sense.
“I hope using me to fulfill your twisted desire for revenge doesn’t weigh too heavily on your pin-size conscience.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re concerned for my welfare, but just to clear the air . . .” His eyes darkened. “I’ve enjoyed every second of it.”
Loathing burned a hole through my stomach as “Pop Goes the Weasel” grew louder and louder in my ears. Then, something vengeful, almost sensual, arose to trace the edges of my voice.
“I think you’re enjoying it more than you’d like.”
He went still, and then his gaze slowly lifted to examine me like I was toxic. Somehow, the bitter tea went down smoothly beneath the force of his stare.
“We both know I could have you any way I want. Unfortunately for you, I have better things to do than Mikhailov whores.”
A pop sounded in my chest, releasing an explosion of fire that turned my vision a hazy red. The slap to his face vibrated in the room and stung my palm, but the sight of his reddened cheek and violent gaze didn’t quell the pounding of blood in my ears.
I was doused in flames, in regret and confusion. He’d taken everything from me—my papa, my mother’s memory, my innocence—and still, I couldn’t even slap him without a tight sensation of remorse and an apology rising in my throat. I hated it. I hated this house. But what I hated the most was what I didn’t hate.
The pull between the feelings wreaked havoc on my body and the dining room. I shot to my feet and swept dishes off the table to the floor, including his stupid bowl of Fruit Loops. Fine china shattered.