“But as a rule,” I said coolly, “I tend to stay away from men who cut off people’s fingers.”
“Yet you’re still loyal to your papa,” he drawled.
He found a sore spot. I’d forged walls of denial, and I wouldn’t let him tear them down.
“Don’t you have something better to do?” I snapped. Like Nadia?
His eyes flashed. “Watch it.”
My anger drowned beneath the simple warning, and I glanced out the window. “How long are you going to keep me here?”
“However long I want to.”
“I want out of this room.”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. You don’t get whatever you want.”
I would lose my mind if I was trapped between these four walls any longer. My lungs grew tighter each second, and soon, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. As distress stretched inside, I forced two words past my lips.
“I’ll behave.”
He watched me for a long second, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Prove it.”
I didn’t even want to consider how he wanted me to do that. The options were vast and all degrading. Holding his gaze, I waited—just waited for him to tell me what he wanted. Probably to get on my knees and blow him.
“Beg for it.”
Revulsion spread through me like acid. I’d rather blow him; I could wash that humiliation out of my mouth. But begging? It was a vulnerability I wouldn’t and couldn’t give. Words were a straight shot to the soul. I may not be free, but my soul was still mine.
I despised him for making me do this, for dragging me down to this level. With that fire, something hot, foreign, and unrelenting rose to the surface.
Our gazes held in thick tension, his unfeeling, mine fighting to hide the violence within. I stepped off the window seat, one long leg at a time, and then I lowered to my knees. When I slowly crawled toward him, Ronan’s eyes narrowed in heat and suspicion. So jaded. So astute.
“Is this what you want?” My voice sounded different, dipped in lingerie and seduction.
His penetrating stare followed my every movement, the low words a rumble of pleasure. “It’s a start.”
The sounds of my knees and hands on the floor, the steady beat of my heart, and the sweet thrash of our vengeance filled the room. I crawled between his spread legs and ran my face against his pants like a humble pet. He was hard. The sadist was getting off on this.
His inked fingers rested on his knee, and I caressed them with my cheek. He opened his hand and practically rumbled with satisfaction when I stroked the side of my face against his palm.
“Please,” I begged, sliding my hand over his erection and up his chest, my next words harsh, “go fuck yourself.”
I shoved him as hard as I could.
The chair tipped backward to the floor, taking its master with it. Wood splintered beneath his weight, and his growl vibrated through the room. Heart twisting in my throat, I was on my feet, but he spun out of the fall to grab my ankle and pull me down. I hit the floor so hard, all the breath whooshed out of me.
“Kotyonok.” It was a chuckle bit behind clenched teeth. “You’ve fucked up.”
He dragged me backward, and I clawed at the Persian rug to find purchase. My shirt slid to my waist, baring naked skin. I knew I couldn’t let him get me underneath him, or this fight would be over. Releasing my grip on the rug to feign surrender, I gasped, “I’m sorry!”
“No, you’re not,” he growled. “You just know you’ve lost.”
He didn’t expect a good fight from me. I was a girl going up against a battle-hardened man. But now I didn’t have a concussion. Now I had hatred burning a hole through my stomach. I couldn’t control these pent-up feelings, and when I had the right angle, they lashed out.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “I’m not even a little sorry.”
Throwing my elbow back, I hit something hard. Pain radiated through my arm. He hissed, but his grip on my ankle only tightened. The bastard must be made of fire and brimstone.