I felt Ronan move to the couch opposite me and take a seat. It was a battle to keep my gaze on the illegible Cyrillic letters, but I wasn’t prepared to acknowledge him yet. Disregarding the humiliation of this morning that raised a shameful flush to my skin, the suffocating tension he emanated was about as comfortable as jumping into a fire.
I realized he must know I went into his precious dungeon, and he was not happy about it. Yulia probably saw me at it with the eyes on the back of her head.
If Ronan didn’t want me in the basement, he should have put a lock on the door.
Chink . . . click. The sound broke the silence and squeezed the pulse point in my throat. My mind was a mess trying to decipher the product of the noise, but I forced myself to nonchalantly flip a page.
Ronan knew I couldn’t read Russian, yet he had nothing to say about the ridiculous, treasonable book in my hands. The room remained silent except for the incessant noise that frayed the edges of my nerves.
Chink . . . click.
I imagined this was worse than Chinese water torture. I suddenly knew he would continue whatever game this was for hours and that I would die in one. I gave in, flicked my gaze to him, and asked, “Do you need something?”
Elbows braced on his knees, his eyes held steady on a Zippo lighter in his hand, which he opened and closed. His demeanor was so cold a chill spread through me.
“Tell me why you are here.” His accent grated like sandpaper, but what made me tighten my grip on the Bible was the fact the demand was spoken in the voice of D’yavol—the immortal man who ruled Moscow and probably killed American cheerleaders for sport.
His order was vague, but somehow, I knew what he wanted. As always, my spirit ached to fight him, though a voice in the back of my mind cautioned me. I was no longer the only one he could crush beneath his expensive boot.
“I’m collateral.”
Chink. “Whose collateral?” Click.
I swallowed. “Yours.”
“Who else’s?”
The powerplay was beginning to blister. I may as well be on my knees at his feet just so he could reject me again. Je ne suis pas fière. Tu n’es pas fière. Nous ne sommes pas fières. I am not prideful. You are not prideful. We are not prideful.
With a shallow breath, I forced, “Just yours.”
“Just mine.” The words froze to ice, and his eyes finally lifted to mine, an immoral matte black. “Your misery, your attention, your body—all mine.” The caustic words settled on my skin, slowing each inhale. “I’m beginning to think I need to prove it to you.”
My heart plummeted when I understood what this was about. The kiss. A recollection came back, of Ivan looking at something behind me before he made his move.
Ronan and his secret cameras.
I was nothing but a chess piece being played in their vengeful game. My feelings didn’t matter. They never had. Heat washed up my back as resentment stirred, obliterating all traces of self-preservation.
I slapped the book beside me on the couch and stood. “I’m really not interested right now, but maybe tomorrow.”
The growl from deep in his chest resounded in my ears before he shot to his feet and flipped the coffee table over. The antique hit the wall and cracked along with my composure. Fine ornaments went flying, shattered on the floor, and skidded across the marble.
And he said I had a temper.
Heart in my throat, I held my ground and his stare. He took advantage of the now clear space between us to stride toward me, an unstable violence raging in his eyes.
Something drew him to a halt. He exhaled and ran a hand down his chest in such a refined way it was like he believed he was the composed one before grating, “Go to your room before I do something I’ll regret.”
A second ago, that was exactly where I planned to go, though since he’d demanded it, my room was now the last place I wanted to be. He’d probably have Yulia lock the door behind me, and if I had to endure another minute of solitude, I’d explode into yellow confetti.
He was giving me an out I should take, but my feet refused to move even as my mind told me to hightail it out of there. So many conflicting feelings tangled within, shoving my system off-kilter. Ivan had used me to get one over on his enemy. Ronan had betrayed, abducted, rejected, and confused me. I stared at him, digging my nails into my palms as the chaos inside begged for an outlet.
His eyes hardened, and, in a menacing tone, he threatened, “Go.”
I was warned, so, in essence, I had no excuse for what poured out of my mouth. On second thought, I blamed Madame Richie.
“Bite me.”