MILA
I woke among black sheets and a woodsy scent that consumed every one of my senses. Ronan sat in a chair beside the bed. His eyes were lowered, and his elbows rested on his knees as he twisted my heart-shaped earring between his thumb and forefinger. A single turn of the synthetic diamond symbolized our relationship: He held my heart in the palm of his hand, bringing it out to play sometimes before putting it back in his pocket to be forgotten.
He wasn’t aware I was awake, and I took the opportunity to view his private moment. Still in nothing but his briefs, his hair glinted blue in the sunlight and was mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. He was ink and vengeance and so very human beneath cold, steel armor.
In Moscow, cartoon hearts danced in my eyes when I saw him. Now, in this wintery Russian fortress, the sight of him created a sharp ache in my chest that threatened to rip me in half.
I wondered if Ronan’s conscience was responsible for him changing his mind about leaving me for dead, or simply the fact he’d have to forfeit his collateral. He’d surprised me by apologizing, though he was the one who told me apologies were worthless. Clearly, he couldn’t stomach the thought of being close to me for longer than it took to make sure I didn’t die.
The earring fell from his fingers and sparkled as it bounced off the marble floor before rolling beneath the bed. My heartache disappeared in the dark where childhood monsters lay, leaving a coldness to spread within like spiderwebs of frost.
I covered my bare breasts with the sheet and sat up on the bed. Ronan’s dark gaze lifted to mine. He didn’t look tired, but something told me he was used to sleepless nights.
“Kirill came to see you already,” he said. “You slept through it.”
I found the fact he sent for a doctor slightly interesting—nothing more. Not seeing my clothes anywhere, I wrapped the sheet around me and stood.
“You didn’t need to bother him again but thank you.”
“Thank you,” he repeated drily as if he couldn’t decide whether he was annoyed by the words or simply didn’t understand them.
“Spasibo.” I translated it to Russian for him and padded to the door, the black sheet trailing behind me like a woman in virginal mourning.
“I know what you fucking said,” he grated. “And I didn’t say you could go.”
Obediently, I stopped in the doorway and turned to him, welcoming the numb sensation within. Ronan could move me around like one of Yulia’s dolls right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. My compliance was what he’d wanted all this time, yet by the hard glitter in his eyes, it seemed he still wasn’t happy.
As he stood and strode toward me, I coasted my stare to the corner of the room—mostly because looking at him shook the composure inside. Like a splatter of paint on a white canvas.
“How do you feel?”
“Hungry,” I said simply.
Ronan made an impatient noise, now standing within arm’s reach, and demanded, “Your eyes, Mila.”
I pulled my gaze to his but stared through him. His attention warmed my face, the irritation in the air intensifying with each tick of silence. Then he reached up and ran a thumb across my cheek.
“No tears for me this morning?”
“Do you wish for my tears?” My tone conveyed I would muster up a few if he did.
His jaw tightened. An angry sound rose in his throat, then he pushed my face away and turned his back to me.
“May I go now?”
He shook his head and gritted, “You may,” before slamming the bathroom door behind him.
I bumped into Yulia in my bedroom doorway. She held out a glass of water and two ibuprofen for my wrist. As I plopped the pills in my mouth and swallowed them down with a drink, I thought I saw a flicker of softness in her gaze. Though it disappeared with a purse of her lips and the next words from her mouth.
“If she profanes herself by whoring, she shall be burned with fire.” Then she grabbed the glass from my hand, brushed past me, and headed down the hall, humming.
I was really living the dream here. No doubt Captive Barbie would be in stores next season.
After taking a hot shower, I drifted into the dining room for breakfast. Completely unconcerned with my presence, Kylie’s twin set the table between bouts of texting and delicate giggles. It was only when I poured a cup of tea that she stilled to examine me like bacteria under a microscope.
“They say you are Mikhailova,” she said very slowly.
The last thing I wanted was to make small talk, but my manners forced me to respond. “They’re correct.”
“They also say you are witch.”
I could only give a hint of a smile.
“You do not look like one.” Her unimpressed gaze slid down my wet hair and T-shirt dress. “Or like prisoner.”
“I guess they come in many shapes and forms.” I wasn’t sure if we were talking about being a witch or a prisoner at this point, though I guessed the statement worked for both.
“You seem . . .” She frowned as if she had to force the word out. “Nice. But what do they say?” She tapped her lips in thought, then her eyes lit up with a snap of her fingers. “Blood will out.”
Her excitement to use the expression watered down the insult. Apparently, she’d heard the rumors of my mother. Or my papa. I guessed I had a lot of bad blood on both sides, but it was clear she spoke of the former when her gaze slid to the hickey on my neck and she purred, “Though it seems you have already gone down that road.”
Kylie was a total buzzkill. I didn’t respond and added some sugar to my tea, which seemed to annoy her.
“You must know he does not actually vant you.”
A kernel of bitterness infiltrated my chest. It must be everyone’s mission to ruin my pleasant state of depression this morning.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I told her blandly, “but yes, I’m fully aware.”
Ronan stepped through the doorway dressed in Givenchy, and by the hint of violence in his gaze, he’d overheard the conversation. What an eavesdropper.
He sat down in his chair like any other morning. I was again invisible to Kylie as she turned her full attention to Ronan and worked on his place setting. It couldn’t be more obvious she’d waited to do it until he arrived. And, really, how many forks did he need? I buttered a piece of toast and ignored the scene while she spoke to him in Russian.
“Tea. Then get the fuck out of my house.”
My butter knife faltered for a split second. That was a, “You’re fired!” to rival The Apprentice. Kylie shot me a hostile expression as if it was my fault, quickly poured Ronan’s tea, and fled the room.
“Do you seriously let people talk to you like that?” Ronan growled, his irate gaze on me. I avoided looking at him as if he were Medusa.
“Like what?”
“Don’t play games with me.” His anger chafed my skin. “She practically called you a whore.”
The fact he was acting like he cared swept over me in an itchy wave of frustration, but if I didn’t contain all feeling, I was afraid I’d explode like Hiroshima.
“You love calling me a whore,” I returned indifferently. “And you told me to not patronize your staff. I was just doing what you told me to.”
With a growl, he gripped my face and turned it to his. I didn’t fight the hold, but I refused to meet his gaze. The eye contact would turn me to stone and then crack—right down the middle.
“If you’re trying to please me right now, you’re failing massively.”
“Just tell me what you’d like me to do in those situations, and I promise, I’ll do better next time.”
“You can start by not pretending you don’t give a fuck.” When he released me roughly, I promptly turned my attention back to my plate. I knew he was talking about last night, but I played dumb.
“I don’t care what your servants think of me.”
“I swear to God, Mila.” He stole the fork from my hand and placed it next to all five of his.
Searching through the multitude of dishes on the table, I asked, “Do you have peanut butter? I prefer peanut butter on my toast.”
“You’re going hungry until we talk about last night.”
Nope. Not having that conversation. Just the thought agitated my self-control and expanded an emotional demon in my chest that grabbed ahold of my throat. I wouldn’t give this man one more tear.
His phone rang, and while he pulled it from his pocket and hit ignore, I tipped a dish to look inside of it, frowning at the sight of honey. “Why don’t we just make a party of it and stomp on some bees for breakfast?”
“Stop. With the. Goddamn. Dishes.” He was close to throwing me out with the dogs again.
“I don’t like dry toast,” I said, continuing to peruse the condiments. “Seriously, no peanut butter? Are you on a budget or something?”
With one calm flick of his hand, the entire twelve-seater table tipped on its side, taking down chairs in its path. Dishes, plates, and silverware slid across the wood and clattered to the marble floor. The bang rattled my bones, washing away the numbness inside of me on a hot tide of resentment.
There went my freaking breakfast.