My eyes hardened. “Because I can take as much goddamn time as I want.” And because I was compromising with both sides of the conflict inside of me the idea of letting Mila go invoked.
The fact she was a virgin fucked everything up. I didn’t have the patience to go slow and sweet and pretend the woman meant anything to me besides a good lay. Though the thought of someone else giving her that seared like acid in my veins.
Knowing I was the first to be inside of her made me feel slightly . . . selfish, like a kid on Christmas morning who didn’t want to share his new BB gun. And just as that gun would be forgotten a week later, so would the irritational greed I experienced concerning her. Then I would have my revenge and never again associate yellow with anything but tropical fruit.
“I was sure you would like to be the one to deal with Ivan.”
My grip tightened on the glass, a darkness flaring in my chest. All I’d been able to see since Kostya shoved the surveillance video in my face was Ivan’s hands on Mila. Most nauseating shit I ever saw. And infuriating. The sight coated my vision with a red mist, rage blistering in my blood. I forced myself to remain in Moscow until the flames cooled, but I guessed I should have stayed longer.
“Tell him I’ll kill him if I ever see his face again,” was all I said. I’d never spoken truer words, which was why I couldn’t look at him now without backing out on the decision I’d made to release him.
Without a word, Albert disappeared to carry out my order.
Now that was out of the way, I downed the vodka in my glass and focused on more important matters. Like what product would wash off the virgin blood still gripping my dick like a vise.
mamihlapinatapai
(n.) a look between two people that suggests an unspoken, shared desire
“Where is he?” I demanded.
Yulia sat in a rocking chair sewing a black doll dress. The shrewd glance she bestowed upon me behind antique spectacles made me feel like she knew all of the sinful happenings of the house—including last night’s. Beneath her stare, I shifted and bumped into a framed portrait of her that sat on the nightstand.
“Leave my room before you break things,” Yulia grumbled.
I righted the frame. “This isn’t a room. It’s a morgue.” Everything was so drab and black, I doubted anyone would notice the difference if an embalming table took the twin bed’s place. The only decorations that livened up the space were multiple dolls’ sightless stares.
“Where is Ivan?” I repeated.
I’d slept the night through, not waking until the sun caressed my skin. I thought I’d had a bizarre sex dream until I saw my torn dress. I wished I could tell Ms. Marta I was living the life of one of her bodice rippers—with more murder and much less declarations of love at least—but my old tutor was probably dead. Ronan’s pessimism was rubbing off on me. As well as other things.
I wasn’t going to analyze what happened between us because it was simply too much to process. And I had other matters to worry about—such as Ivan rotting away in the dungeon. Though when I went down there this morning with some food I stole from the kitchen, his cell was empty.
“I do not know,” Yulia said simply. Then an annoying, knowing lilt touched her voice. “Why do you not ask the master?”
Heat washed up the back of my neck. “First of all, stop calling him that. It’s beyond weird. Second of all, I’m not going to ask him because—well . . .” I trailed off, growing more flustered as a satisfied smirk played on Yulia’s thin lips, her eyes focused on the swoops of her sewing needle.
I had a good reason for why I wasn’t going to ask Ronan, and it had everything to do with being nervous as hell. There wasn’t a chance I’d admit it though. I didn’t know where he and I stood now or how to act around him. It was past the time for breakfast, but he hadn’t sent for me. He was probably being served a bowl of Fruit Loops by Kylie’s sex-hungry twin without a care in the world right now, the night forgotten as soon as he showered my virgin blood off him.
I pushed the uneasy feeling away and continued, “Third of all, I know you know where Ivan is, so why don’t you reach into your good Catholic heart and tell me?”
“I am not Catholic,” she groused, her gaze sharp. “I am Orthodox.”
“Same difference.”
“That does not make sense,” she mumbled, pulling her attention back to the small lace hem she was sewing. I couldn’t help but notice the design matched Yulia’s dress.
I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath before opening them. “Listen, if you tell me where he is, I’ll leave. If not . . .” With a demure expression, I moved to the shelf of dolls, ignoring Yulia’s “Do not dare!” and picked one up. “Aw, isn’t she cute?” I pouted in thought, looking her over. “I don’t think the black dress matches her personality though. I’m going to find her something yellow to wear.” I took a step toward the door.
“They let him go,” she growled.
Pausing, I turned around. “What?”
“Can you not hear? They freed the traitor.”
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. “Why?”
“Put Lada down,” she insisted, her eyes on the doll as if it was her child and I was about to drop her from a bridge.