MILA
I was burning in the flames of hell. It was the only thing that explained the heat consuming me from the inside out. Though hell wasn’t supposed to be so inviting . . . or smell like a Russian forest . . . or fit as well as Armani.
It did contain the faint scent of blood, however.
I blinked against the sun streaming in through the window. The bright morning light was only shadowed by Ronan’s body—which was, of course, the embodiment of hellfire itself.
My face was pressed against his chest, and I was pretty sure some dried priest’s blood had rubbed off on my cheek. That should be the last straw to this messed up tête-à-tête, but somehow, I knew the deceased had been a really shitty priest.
One of my legs was intertwined with Ronan’s as I slowly suffocated beneath his heavy thigh, the deadweight of his arm around me, and all the heat. It was bliss.
I’d always disliked my height, though that was before I realized if I was any shorter, I’d never be able to feel so many inches of this man at once. The closeness hummed in my blood, sating a deep-seated hole inside my heart.
“You feel pretty clingy right now, kotyonok.” The words were rough and tired and so very sexy.
“You’re the one holding me tighter than your favorite stuffed animal,” I returned.
“I don’t have favorites.” A lazy hint of humor touched the words. “They all matter to me.”
My laugh turned into an oomph when a small human jumped on top of me, pushing the air from my lungs.
“Dyadya! Dyadya!” Uncle! Uncle! The little girl bounced on me as if I was a trampoline until Ronan hauled her onto his chest. His blood-smeared chest. The man may be wearing pants while I wore his T-shirt, but this scene was far from PG. She either didn’t notice his wounded arm and all the blood, or she simply didn’t find it important. From what I’d learned of her during our first meeting, I knew it was the latter.
“Moya neposlushnaya plemyannitsa,” Ronan chuckled, tickling the girl’s sides. She giggled, her dark braids bouncing. She wore another band T-shirt as a dress—this one Death—and long socks covered with kittens.
I leaned against the headboard and watched them with a sense of awe. This was another side of Ronan I hadn’t seen, and I had to say, this gray part of him was . . . one I undeniably loved. I realized it last night. With his hands in my hair, the carnal taste of him in my mouth, and his eyes on mine. I’d almost said it then . . . I’d almost let those three words escape, but something had blocked them from coming up my throat.
I loved him.
I couldn’t love him.
So I forced the feeling to stay inside where it belonged and not out in the open where it didn’t.
“Stop!” the girl squealed through tortured laughter while Ronan tickled her feet. He sniffed them and pretended they smelled bad, wrinkling his nose. She could barely breathe from giggling.
I’d never thought much about having children, but seeing uncle and niece interact filled my chest with a warm yearning. Though the feeling faded when I recalled this happy moment would just be a memory someday, and any kids I had would never be Ronan’s.
When the tickle torture stopped, the girl caught her breath and turned to look at me. Again, her dark eyes filled with judgement. And maybe a little jealousy.
“Dyadya, if she’s not Satan, who is she?”
Ronan cast a glance to me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “She’s my maid.”
I shook my head with a smile.
The girl frowned. “Why she in bed?”
“She’s trying to make the bed, but I refuse to get out, and she’s too weak to move me.”
She giggled at her uncle. “You’re lazy.”
“Lazily handsome.” He winked at her.
The girl turned to me and announced, “Papa can move him.” On second thought, she pursed her lips. “Nevers mind.”
“Why never mind?” Ronan asked with humor. “Does it have something to do with his phone in your hand?”
She glanced at the cell and made a face like she didn’t like the question. “Papa says I can play a princess game if I eat breakfast.”
I smiled. “And I’m assuming you didn’t eat?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like eggs. Or toast. Or porridge. Or—”
“Okay,” Ronan chuckled. “You don’t like food.”
Happy he understood, she nodded, then said quietly, “I might like food after I play new princess game.”
Wow. This little girl was going to rule the world. Not to mention, she appeared to be about three with the vocabulary of a child much older. She would grow up to be a gorgeous female Einstein. Or a criminal mastermind.
She was giving Ronan those big dark eyes that would be impossible for even Hitler to resist.
Ronan chuckled and shook his head. “Okay, kitty Kat, what do you need from me?”
She smiled real big and handed him the phone. “Find game, please. I could do it,” she said haughtily, “but Papa won’t tell me the password.”
“What a tyrant,” Ronan drawled. “What’s the game called?”
“I dunno. It was on commercial after one of Mamma’s kissy shows.”
It took Ronan three tries to figure out his brother’s passcode. I was beginning to think this entire family was full of geniuses. He opened the app store and searched for princess games with bloody inked fingers.
His niece peeked over his shoulder while he scrolled through the games, and I felt more than content just watching them.
“Okay, we got Princess Hair Salon,” Ronan said.
“Ew.”
He moved on. “Princess Room Cleanup?”
Her nose wrinkled. Mine too.
“Princess Horse Club?”
“No, Dyadya,” she complained. “The game’s not pink.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Everything’s pink.”
“Princess Makeover?”
“Nyet,” she sighed.
“That one wasn’t pink,” he returned.
She rolled her eyes. “Fuchsia is almost pink.”
This little girl was making me feel like my IQ could use a boost.
Ronan continued to scroll through the list of games before stopping on one that had no resemblance to the color pink.
“The Princess’s Reign of Terror?”
Her eyes lit up. “That one!”
I couldn’t hold in a laugh.
She grabbed the cell from Ronan’s hand and dived into The Princess’s Reign of Terror. Seconds later, noises blared from the phone: slices of blades, groans of pain, and a, “Cut off his head!”
“Well, this looks cozy.”
I turned my head to see Christian in the doorway dressed in a three-piece suit without a single wrinkle. I shifted, a little self-conscious at being caught in his brother’s bed willingly—the one who had me tied up naked the last time Christian was here. Though he didn’t seem surprised or even interested in me, which eased any awkwardness.
Christian was the kind of man who made a woman’s mouth dry just by looking at him, but as flawless as he was, I preferred his brother’s imperfections. That scar on his bottom lip. All the ink. His jaded soul I’d seen warm just for me.
Christian looked like Gabriel the archangel. Ronan was every part D’yavol. I knew if they stood on separate sides of an alley and I was running from danger . . . I’d jump into D’yavol’s arms.
“Your daughter was complaining of the emotional trauma you just put her through,” Ronan said. “What kind of uncle would I be if I turned her away?”
“A bad one,” the girl said without looking up from her game.
I bit my lip to hold in a smile.
“Kat,” Christian said with a warning.
She looked up at him and deadpanned, “Papa.”
“Breakfast table right now.”
“Is there pancakes?” she challenged.
Christian narrowed his eyes. His daughter held the eye contact. An intense, silent father-daughter battle was happening before me, and it was mesmerizing.
“Toast and porridge make my tummy hurt, Papa,” Kat said softly. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, and that seemed to be when her papa waved the white flag.
“Fine. Pancakes. But you’ll finish your game after you eat.”