The house after dark held a certain charm, like the haunting creak of a door in the night, a sudden breath of air extinguishing a candle’s flame, and the sensation of being watched through the cracks in the walls. I was grossly exaggerating the situation—regarding the first two at least—though knowing a devil lurked around any corner amplified every little sound, and it didn’t help I stood in his bedroom.
It was undeniably his. His smell was everywhere, and the sheets were black. I shouldn’t be in here, but its secrets drew me in from the hall after I wandered the mansion for an hour.
Even though it was the worst idea I’d ever had, just like Moscow, I wanted to delve into the dark alleys of Ronan’s mind. And finding something to help me escape wouldn’t hurt. A phone, the internet, a Ouija board—anything to contact the outside world.
Going through his nightstand drawers, I examined their contents and dropped a pack of condoms like a hot potato. I was surprised Ronan wrapped it up, expecting him to want to spawn his demons into the world every time he conned a woman into his bed. Although, that would be true of the man I thought he was, and not so much the man I was getting to know one breakfast at a time.
Aside from the unsettling prophylactics, all I found were a couple of cigars, his tidy scrawl in Russian on some papers I was annoyed I couldn’t read, and other junk that would serve me no purpose.
After stealing one of his razors from the bathroom fit for a king, I opened his closet door and moved inside. It was meticulously organized: expensive boots in a line, rows upon rows of luxury black suits, and shelves of sparkling cufflinks and watches.
A safe sat in the corner. I wiggled the locked handle. The keypad required a numerical code for access, so I typed, “6-6-6.” The light blinked red, and the metal box let out an angry beep.
“What are you doing, kotyonok?”
I jumped back, a shiver scattering through me. Slowly, I turned to see Ronan leaning against the doorframe. The sight of him made my heart do an awkward palpitation as curiosity expanded once again.
My fingers tightened around his razor. “Looking for your staircase to hell.”
He chuckled softly. “You’re not going to find it in here. I keep it in the basement.”
Something synonymous with amusement started in my stomach, but I tamped it down. I may have decided to let twisted feelings run their course but laughing with my kidnapper in his closet would just be crazy.
Ronan’s eyes slid to the razor in my hand before he moved into the closet too, and even though it was the size of a child’s bedroom, the space could now rival a cardboard box.
I took a step back and watched him warily as he removed his suit jacket. My throat felt tight when he pulled a handgun from his person and set it on a shelf. The pistol simply sat there, a few feet away.
If I had the chance to reach for it, would I? If I didn’t, was I a product of my own enslavement? Of my papa’s death?
On edge and entranced by that murderous piece of metal, I almost jumped when he spoke, his tone dryly amused. “You’re not thinking about shooting me, are you?”
Eyes sliding to his, I grasped onto the first response that popped into my mind. “Depends. Would you die, or does it take a stake through the heart? I don’t want to waste my time.”
“A bullet hasn’t killed me yet, but there’s always a first time for everything.”
It wasn’t a surprise Ronan didn’t fear dying. Even in death, he’d probably sit on a throne made of skulls and lord over all the other sinners. Though, the idea of this man, so alive and virile, ceasing to exist seemed to be impossible and . . . strange.
“Would you cry for me, kotyonok?” His dark gaze consumed me as he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, and, somehow, the memory of his thumb wiping away my tears was so tangible, I felt the caress on my cheek like he’d touched me.
The walls closed in with each second of uncertain silence, tighter and tighter, until I decided to escape his presence. Only, when I moved by him, he grabbed my wrist.
“I didn’t say you could go.” The low words stroked the side of my neck, and an ember of heat stirred to life in my belly.
I tugged against his grip, so, of course, he pulled me closer. My bare feet touched his boots, breasts pressed against his hard chest. Heat washed through my body, vibrating wherever it met his, and I turned my head to avoid as much contact as possible. He could probably feel my racing heartbeat; the thrum that battled morality and temptation.
“I was just poisoned,” I said, my throat thick. “Maybe you can manhandle me later.”
I felt his smile. “Yulia says you’ve been doing paganistic rituals in your room.”
It was called yoga, but he knew that.
“She lies,” I managed to say, though as the knowledge he’d been keeping up on me sank in, complacency relaxed any resistance inside.
My body grew lax against his, and he took advantage of it, edging me backward until the backs of my thighs pressed against his dresser. I was trapped between two immovable objects, one devastating me with so much male heat my thoughts slowed and stalled. Now I was just a girl with a razor in hand, and he was just a man I once had feelings for.
I gripped the edge of the dresser with my free hand to steady myself. He released my wrist, and my breath grew erratic as his fingers skimmed down the outsides of my thighs until they reached the hem of my dress. The motion was slow, so charged I wasn’t sure I could speak or if I would even be heard over the electricity in the air. The mere expectation of his touch struck a match in every nerve ending.
A rough palm slid beneath my dress, over the curve of my hip, to my ass. When he found me only wearing a thong, he made a low sound in his throat and squeezed a bare cheek. I panted as his approval skated between my legs and expanded. His hand traveled to my lower back. The action pulled my dress farther up my thighs, leaving only a thin barrier of fabric between my core and the heat of his erection.
I kept my head angled away from his in a pathetic attempt for distance, but the desire to rock against him pulled at every ounce of restraint inside. Sanity told me, if I went there with him, it would be with the full force of a tsunami, and no amount of swimming would keep me afloat.
His lips skimmed down my neck, igniting a line of fire in their wake. “How long are we going to play this game?” The words were engulfed by a wave of static and constraint so thick, a single wrong move would set everything in this room ablaze.
I couldn’t think. I could hardly breathe. The need to let go tugged at my body, drawing me in with deviant words that said drowning was the best way to go.
When he nipped my neck, expecting a response, the wet heatof his mouth sent a cascade of pleasure down my spine. I tightened my grip on the dresser and fought the moan rising in my throat.
An image flashed in my mind, of Ronan standing on the edge of a dark pool just watching me sink to the bottom of it, my curly hair floating and aglow. The visual evoked the last bit of resistance within.
I turned my head to meet his gaze. “As long as you plan on killing my papa.”
He held my stare for so long, something in me thought maybe, just maybe, I had something he wanted enough to forget his revenge. Then he stepped away from me, his shoulders tight.
I exhaled, an uneasy shake flaring in my veins.
“Get out.” He turned from me and continued unbuttoning his cuffs like I was an unwanted distraction. “And, kotyonok.” A narrowed gaze met mine. “If I find you in my room again, I’ll take it as an invitation.”
I held his dark gaze for a moment. And then I disappeared from his room, vowing to never set foot in it again.
MILA
The next morning, our breakfast “dates” continued. However, the atmosphere couldn’t be tenser if a ticking time bomb sat beside the teapot. I just didn’t know the silence was about to detonate in a way that would make an actual explosive a better alternative.
An edginess flared at the memory of last night. The pressure of Ronan’s body against mine awoke a heat wave beneath my skin that was so hot, I tossed and turned all night in emptiness and confusion. Even now, a restless ache persisted between my legs.
I curled my toes against the marble, knowing I should be ashamed of the feeling—especially since Ronan seemed to have forgotten last night entirely by his apathetic demeanor—but I refused to send myself on another guilt trip.
Instead of the silent maid, another woman served our food, and she was not the docile, invisible type. She could be Kylie Jenner’s blonde twin. I wouldn’t be surprised if the servant’s eyelashes were thickly mascaraed by the celebrity’s makeup line.
Slowly, she set dishes on the table, the clink of each one followed by a glance in Ronan’s direction. He wasn’t doing anything besides scrolling through his phone and running a thoughtful thumb across the scar on his lip.
A few of the maid’s dress buttons were undone, giving a generous glance down her bodice whenever she bent over. And she bent over a lot. I wanted to tell her to have a little self-respect, but I wasn’t sure it would resonate coming from a girl who would have probably had unprotected sex with Ronan on the first date if he’d asked.
I thought he was so busy reporting posts on Instagram he didn’t notice her painfully obvious interest—that is, until his eyes lifted from his phone, caught mine, and flickered with devious amusement.
Ugh.
“Mogu ya predlozhit’ vam chto-nibud’ yeshche?” the maid asked Ronan in a sultry voice. I didn’t need to know Russian to understand she’d just questioned if she could “tempt” him with anything else.
I hated blondes.