sapiosexual
(n.) one who is attracted to or aroused by intelligence in others
MILA
Ronan and I did the same dance for three days.
We ate breakfast together like a couple with serious marital problems, then he went to Moscow to manipulate and maim most likely, and I was escorted back to my room.
In an effort to earn some freedom and a way out of this nightmare, I behaved as best as my mouth would allow even though I wanted to scream inside.
Ronan, Yulia, and the silent maid were the only faces I saw day in and out, and it was starting to mess with my head. I didn’t know when the shift happened, but I began to look forward to breakfast if only to escape the mind-eating boredom.
On the third morning, I came to a realization.
“I know what you’re doing,” I announced at the dining table.
Ronan lifted his gaze from the iPhone that was probably glued to his hand. If “Tasty!” and “Delicious!” in a deep Candy Crush voice weren’t coming from the stupid device, it constantly pinged with texts and emails.
A brow rose. “And what am I doing?”
“You’re trying to Stockholm syndrome me.”
I thought he wanted to laugh. “I don’t think that’s a verb.”
“Like I need grammar advice from someone who uses ‘fuck’ as a noun, verb, and adverb in a single sentence.”
“Fuck is versatile.”
“Not that versatile.”
The full weight of his gaze could rival a shock wave. “When I fuck you, kotyonok, I promise, you’ll use ‘fuck’ in more ways than I ever fucking have.”
Turned inside out by his words and the intensity in his stare, it became a battle not to avert my gaze or shift in my seat. The crass promise slowed my breath, but what sent an annoying surge of liquid heat to the pit of my stomach was the fact he knew how to use each part of speech properly. He even got the adverb right.
“Versatile enough for you?” he asked.
His expression spoke volumes.
Ronan: 1
Mila: 0
Unable to give it up, I muttered, “The ‘fucking’ was a little gratuitous.”
“Thought you weren’t a sore loser.”
I silently mused on his response. I’d never been a competitive person, but every conversation with Ronan seemed like a fight I needed to win. Maybe being kidnapped by a Russian mobster changed a girl, or maybe I just wanted to peel back the edges of his skin to reveal the monster beneath. It wasn’t fair he could cloak himself so easily in a handsome face and designer suits.
He stood, slipped his phone into his pocket, and buttoned his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kotyonok.” Then he walked out of the room without another word, leaving me alone once again, as if I was a mere fly of a thought swallowed whole by his plans for world domination.
He never answered my question, but his indifference and retreat invoked the idea I was wrong; that planning to manipulate my body and soul had never crossed his mind. Now, I felt ridiculous for coming to that conclusion. If he wanted to sleep with me so much, he could just take it. He wasn’t exactly anyone’s definition of a soft-handed man. Maybe he didn’t care enough to force the issue. Maybe these morning “dates” satisfied his desire for a side of ridicule with his breakfast.
I twirled my spoon in the bowl of porridge he didn’t force me to eat. An uneasy feeling swelled in my stomach. Disgustingly, I wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact Ronan might be losing interest in me or that the remaining hours of my papa’s life were ticking down on the timeclock.
The most revolting part of the scenario didn’t have to do with either of those things. As Ronan’s back disappeared from view, taking his “fucks” and the smell of the forest with him, a sense of loneliness took his place—a solitude Yulia’s presence couldn’t fill.
“Je le hais. Tu le hais. Nous le haïssons.” I hate him. You hate him. We hate him. I stared at the ceiling, wearily conjugating French verbs in the most amusing way I could muster.
The door opened, and, after a short pause filled by her bending down to pick the broken doorknob up off the floor, Yulia said, “This is house. Not barn.”
I believed she was talking about the hour I spent banging on the painfully solid door yelling, “LET ME OUT!” at five a.m. this morning. But who knew? In this house, she could be referring to my speaking French.
Ignoring her, I recited with zero enthusiasm, “Je le déteste. Tu le détestes. Nous le détestons.” I detest him. You detest him. We detest him.
A stern face entered my view of the ceiling. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m on my period,” I explained.
Her nose wrinkled like I was a singular and disgusting creature, then she disappeared from the room for a moment, making sure to dead bolt the door behind her, before returning with a box of tampons she dropped on my face.
“Ow,” I complained, rubbing my forehead.
She snickered.
“Witch,” I groused.
“Bitch.”
Today was the worst day for the cramps to creep up on me. This morning, I decided I would do anything to get out of this room: rein in the sarcasm, sell my soul, blow the devil—you name it. One more day of this madness, and I’d end up as crazy as Renfield in Dracula. I was already nocturnal and questioning my veganism. Tomorrow, I’d be eating bugs.
My uterus punishing me for not getting knocked up this month was going to make controlling my mouth much more difficult. I’d never admitted to being perfect, but on my period? I was far, far from it.
“You are late for breakfast, devushka.”
“Just let me die here in peace.”
“I like this room. Go die downstairs.”
Ten minutes later, I entered the dining room in a blouse the color of the sun and a flowy skirt with Yulia on my heels. She cast an apologetic look at Ronan for delivering me late. I wouldn’t blink if she bowed to him on her way out.
He merely nodded in acknowledgment, phone to his ear. I headed to my seat and loaded my plate with fruit. Ronan smiled at what whoever was on the other end of the line said. Probably Nadia. I felt a little sorry for her but also believed she had the personality of a goat-headed statue.
Lazily responding in Russian, Ronan watched me add three sugar cubes to my hot cup of tea. I had a bitter taste in my mouth, and only something sickly-sweet could wash it away.
Finally, he hung up, using an endearing and annoying goodbye, before shrouding the room in quiet. After a moment, he said, “If you wanted a cup of diabetes, you only had to ask.”
I bit the automatic retort back. Do you think two would be enough to end my time here with you? Instead, I said cordially, “I’m good. Thank you.”
He sat back, something close to amusement passing through his eyes. “Late night or early morning?” The insinuation was clear: he’d heard my shouting and banging on the door, and he’d ignored me.
Je suis calme. Tu es calme. Nous sommes calmes. I am calm. You are calm. We are calm.
“I just find it hard to sleep with all the excitement.” Sarcasm was a sneaky bitch who often got the best of me.
“I wasn’t aware my guest room contained such great entertainment.” His eyes glinted. “Well . . . aside from what I left for you to watch at least. I know it’s good TV, but you should branch out and try a sitcom every once in a while.”
We both knew he’d rigged that TV so I couldn’t watch anything but endless porn. A surge of coldness washed over my skin while I tried to force the rising lava down. I refused to go back to that room. He’d have to drag me kicking and screaming, and that was exactly what he would do unless I appeased him.
“I’m not talking about the TV.” Taking a sip of the hot sugar in my cup, I relished the burn on my tongue. I had no idea what I was going to come up with to explain the earlier sarcastic slip, so words simply started to tumble out. “It’s just the . . . atmosphere here . . .” My gaze caught Yulia in the hall who was humming and combing the hair of a porcelain doll that sat on a table of ornaments. I pulled my attention back to Ronan and forced a smile. “It’s just so romantic. A Russian winter wonderland, very sturdy medieval doors, and an age gap. I’m living in a Disney movie.”
After watching me for a heavy second, he laughed, deep and sincere, like he couldn’t believe what just came out of my mouth. Humor slid into his words. “I have the feeling you’re not being completely sincere with me right now.”
“I have no idea what gave you that impression.”
I planned to plead my case for a longer leash at the end of breakfast, but if he continued to sit there and watch me without touching his plate, this meal could last hours. It would be a struggle to last ten minutes without earning his displeasure, and somehow, the keen bastard knew it. He was going to drag this out as painfully as possible.
I tried to shut out his invasive presence, but his gaze and silence were living beings—two little demons that sat on each of my shoulders.
Je l’ignore. Tu l’ignores. Nous l’ignorons. I ignore him. You ignore him. We ignore him.
“I’m thirsty, kotyonok.”
Fork halfway to my lips, I stilled at the languid tenor in his voice that practically demanded I serve him. After a disbelieving beat ticked by, I allowed my gaze to travel to the lazy bastard, who lounged in his chair and, I knew from experience, had full use of both of his hands.
“Sloth is a sin,” I said, my gaze narrowed.
“So is pride,” he returned. “In fact, it’s believed to be the deadliest of them all.”
Ugh. Now I had to serve him, or I was the greater sinner. I hated whoever took the time to teach this man the Bible.
I dropped my fork and forced a smile. “Tea or water, D’yavol?”
Elbow resting on the arm of his chair, he ran a thumb across his jaw like he was thinking about it. A hint of pleasure sparkled in his eyes at the demeaning situation he’d put me in.
My bare foot began to tap impatiently beneath the table, temper rising higher each second he took to make up his damn mind. His boot gently came down on my foot to halt the tapping.
“Tea.”
Pouring him a cup, I asked, “Sugar?”
“No.”
With a plop, the sugar cube sank to the bottom of his cup, and I slid it to him with the hope he was allergic. Just as I picked my fork back up, he opened his mouth again.
“Now that I think about it, water would be better.”
My restraint snapped, and the first words to enter my mind escaped. “Why are you the way that you are?”
The smallest flicker of humor arose, but at the disrespectful tone, his eyes darkened, and that expensive boot pressed a little harder on my foot.
“You’re narcissistic I find you amusing.”
While that sentence wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, it hit its mark and filled the space between us with a silent awareness. He was mocking my play on “lucky” from our earlier conversation. The devil understood the workings of my chaotic mind so well, I wasn’t sure what it said about me.
A sense of closeness constricted my throat, and I pulled my foot out from underneath his boot. I’d most assuredly screwed my chances of gaining any freedom today, and I’d lost the humility to beg for it. I needed to cut my losses before I felt the sharp bite of fangs.
“May I be excused?”
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
See, this was what happened when I tried to behave.
We sat in a tense and uncomfortable silence for too long. I was beyond full, so I entertained myself by pulling my leftover toast into tiny pieces. Ronan wasn’t even eating but checking his messages while I was forced to sit there like a child at the dinner table.
“Are you going to eat?” I blurted. “Or do you prefer to dine on human hearts in private?”
He glanced up at me. “You know what I prefer to dine on in private.”
Unwilling to continue that conversation, I changed the subject. “I want to talk to my papa.”
“Tough.”
My blood began to simmer. “Tell me, did you sell your soul, or does evil just run in the family?”
“Genetics probably play a factor in it. You should know. You have your mother’s blood in you.”
He could humiliate me all he wanted, but I wasn’t giving him my mother’s memory.
“Stop lying about her,” I growled.
He raised a brow, lips tilting as he taunted, “Your mother was sick, kotyonok. And I mean in a strangling-puppies way. Though, sick or not, from what I’ve heard, she was a great fuck—”
I threw my tea in his face.
All the pent-up resentment burst like a party popper, all over Ronan’s somehow calm and furious expression. Tension drowned the oxygen in the room before everything went deathly still. I was frozen to my chair, blood pulsating with adrenaline and a cold sense of dread.
He wiped his face with a hand, voice cool but restrained between clenched teeth. “I’ll give you a head start.”
If I ran from him, he would chase me. If I didn’t run . . .
He would kill me.
Terrifying things like FedEx boxes danced in my mind. Fear pierced my lungs and stole the breath from within. My chair tipped backward to the floor when I jumped to my feet, and then, I fled the room knowing I should have quit while I was ahead.
