I smiled and lied, “No one you know.”
Her fingers slipped off my chest, leaving a weird sense of absence behind. She stepped back to give room for Kirill to set up a blood bag. I gave him a silent warning to not put any pain-relief drugs in my IV. I hated the way they made me feel. At first, he’d complained, but now, he was used to it and merely nodded.
Mila hovered as if there was something she could do to help. I’d never been the source of someone’s concern before her. I didn’t need it. Here I was, four gunshots in and still alive. Yet Mila was on a roll trying to string some Russian together to ask Kirill about my condition. I suddenly hated her concern. I hated it because I liked it. And the latter wasn’t conducive in any way. Once she was gone, karma would leave me pining for a woman’s love over a bowl of soggy Fruit Loops.
I needed to stop this Hallmark avalanche now.
“We both got off, Mila,” I said harshly. “I’m not sure what you’re waiting around here for.”
She took a step back at my words, her complexion paling. And now I hated myself. What was a little self-loathing added to the mix?
“Okay,” she murmured. “I guess I’ll go then.”
Mila hesitated for a second before turning to leave as if it was the last thing she wanted. I didn’t think it was what I wanted either. She gave me a fleeting glance in the doorway that tightened my chest, and then she was gone.
I wondered if that was the exact scene that would play out in less than two days’ time—a glimpse of her yellow hair and a brief meeting of eyes before a gnawing absence set in.
I fell into bed over two hours later in my bloody pants and boots. Kirill told me the wound would heal fine after shoving some antibiotics in my hand. He was pretty confident the bullet had missed bone, only tearing through muscle. How narcissistic I got once again. I’d normally be enjoying two fingers of vodka and a cigar after this day, though now all I could see was the heartbroken look on Mila’s face.
The need to go to her room tore at me, but I quelled the impulse. I’d already apologized to her once; I didn’t have another in me. Not to mention, it was futile to do so now, thirty hours before I murdered her papa.
I was sure she wouldn’t welcome me anyway, and I’d never begged for a thing in my life—not even as a kid living on the streets. I simply took what I wanted. Unfortunately, Mila wasn’t a handful of rubles or a loaf of bread. She just had to have feelings and some kind of voodoo power over me that wouldn’t let me hurt her—apparently, even emotionally.
I’d never beg.
But this was the first time I’d wanted to.
I fell asleep to the thought of seeing Mila on the streets. I simply picked her up and carried her home to my Russian fortress, where I hand-fed her pomegranate seeds so she’d never be able to leave.
It was slight movement on the mattress that woke me. Again, I knew who it was. The pressure in my chest released when Mila slid into bed beside me and rested an arm on my chest and her head on my shoulder.
My perfect little martyr, lying in her father’s executioner’s arms. I had a job to do, and she was the chess piece needed to win.
The problem was . . . I didn’t think I could ever play her.
quatervois
(n.) a crossroads
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.