clinomania
(n.) an excessive desire to stay in bed
MILA
I thought Yulia was a bad maid, but that was before I had her as a nurse. She plumped the pillow beneath my head like she was beating a lump of dough and pulled a piece of my hair in the mix.
With a resentful glance, I shied away from her. “Thank you, but my pillow is fine.”
She raised a brow before sliding a mischievous look away to mess with the tray of food at my bedside.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
She ignored me and made a show of adding sugar to my tea. As if I’d ever drink tea again.
I’d stayed in bed for two days, and with each second that passed, I grew sicker of it. The only thing that kept me here was the knowledge someone in this house hated me so much they’d poisoned me. And then, my thoughts chanted I was an awful person for what happened to Adrik and that I deserved it.
My mind was a terrible place.
Yesterday, Kirill deemed me as good as new. Ronan, however, hadn’t shown his face since he carried me to my room and stripped me naked. I didn’t know what I expected. Certainly not an apology for what happened. But a simple, “Glad to see you’re not dead,” would be nice. He hadn’t even sent me a misogynistic note threatening me to eat.
Once again, it seemed I wasn’t a part of his thoughts, while he kept popping into my mind like a game of Whac-A-Mole—especially after he looked me in the eye and told me his mother drove him into a river when he was eight. I said I wouldn’t sympathize with him, but it was hard when he threw his tragic past in my face. I prayed Ronan wouldn’t talk about being an orphan living on the streets. Otherwise, I may as well just tie my hair back in preparation for signing over my soul.
When Yulia lifted a spoonful of soup to my mouth, I turned my head away in exasperation. She’d taken this nursing routine above and beyond just to irritate me. I wasn’t a paraplegic. In fact, the only thing I would die from at this moment was her attention.
The spoon tipped slightly—Yulia might be an old maid, but her hands never shook—and a drip of hot soup spilled onto my T-shirt. I grumbled, “Seriousl—?” The word was cut short by her shoving the spoon into my mouth.
I spit it out with venom. Nonchalantly, she pulled the spoon away to fill it again. I threw the comforter back and jumped out of bed, shooting her a scowl.
“You must eat, devushka.”
“I told you, I’m not hungry. And I’m not staying in that ridiculously comfortable bed anymore. Point me in the direction of the dungeon. I’ll room there for the rest of my stay.” I was The Princess and the Pea. Except the pea was the twisted dejection I was almost killed and then promptly forgotten by a man who fingered me on a secret camera and sent the video to my papa. Gen-Zs wouldn’t know romance if it hit them with a bus.
“You act like someone has forced you to pout for two days.”
I was not pouting. “Would you go traipsing about a house occupied by someone who wants to kill you?”
“I excel at many things, but God did not create me to be nurse.”
“No kidding.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do not wish to nurse you while you sulk, so I tell you, the men who tried to kill you are dead.”
I swallowed. “Dead?”
“Mertvy.” Dead. Picking up the bowl of soup, she said, “I had to wash their brains off the drive.” Then she sipped her spoonful like a lady.
Blood growing cold, I managed to say, “Lovely.”
She shrugged. “It is job.”
I rubbed my arm to quell the goose bumps that rose, as well as another disturbing sensation: a lightness, a deranged contentment Ronan had killed those men.
Like everything else, feelings were backward in this place. It would be my normal to fight them, to force them to be something they weren’t, but a part of me didn’t have the energy. Another part of me, the one I forced into tight clothes and the desire for acceptance, didn’t want to be normal anymore.
Touching the heart-shaped stone in my ear, the other in D’yavol’s possession, I finally understood Gianna’s words.
In this world, things weren’t black and white.
I preferred yellow anyway.
Tuning Yulia out as she stomped at some poor creature scurrying across the floor, I absently walked into the doorless bathroom. I took a shower, and I didn’t feel anything but curiosity. A tone-deaf curiosity that bloomed with the memory of rainbow-colored vomit, unrealized Russian words, and men lying dead in the snow.
The house after dark held a certain charm, like the haunting creak of a door in the night, a sudden breath of air extinguishing a candle’s flame, and the sensation of being watched through the cracks in the walls. I was grossly exaggerating the situation—regarding the first two at least—though knowing a devil lurked around any corner amplified every little sound, and it didn’t help I stood in his bedroom.
It was undeniably his. His smell was everywhere, and the sheets were black. I shouldn’t be in here, but its secrets drew me in from the hall after I wandered the mansion for an hour.
Even though it was the worst idea I’d ever had, just like Moscow, I wanted to delve into the dark alleys of Ronan’s mind. And finding something to help me escape wouldn’t hurt. A phone, the internet, a Ouija board—anything to contact the outside world.
Going through his nightstand drawers, I examined their contents and dropped a pack of condoms like a hot potato. I was surprised Ronan wrapped it up, expecting him to want to spawn his demons into the world every time he conned a woman into his bed. Although, that would be true of the man I thought he was, and not so much the man I was getting to know one breakfast at a time.
Aside from the unsettling prophylactics, all I found were a couple of cigars, his tidy scrawl in Russian on some papers I was annoyed I couldn’t read, and other junk that would serve me no purpose.
After stealing one of his razors from the bathroom fit for a king, I opened his closet door and moved inside. It was meticulously organized: expensive boots in a line, rows upon rows of luxury black suits, and shelves of sparkling cufflinks and watches.
A safe sat in the corner. I wiggled the locked handle. The keypad required a numerical code for access, so I typed, “6-6-6.” The light blinked red, and the metal box let out an angry beep.
“What are you doing, kotyonok?”
I jumped back, a shiver scattering through me. Slowly, I turned to see Ronan leaning against the doorframe. The sight of him made my heart do an awkward palpitation as curiosity expanded once again.
My fingers tightened around his razor. “Looking for your staircase to hell.”
He chuckled softly. “You’re not going to find it in here. I keep it in the basement.”
Something synonymous with amusement started in my stomach, but I tamped it down. I may have decided to let twisted feelings run their course but laughing with my kidnapper in his closet would just be crazy.
Ronan’s eyes slid to the razor in my hand before he moved into the closet too, and even though it was the size of a child’s bedroom, the space could now rival a cardboard box.
I took a step back and watched him warily as he removed his suit jacket. My throat felt tight when he pulled a handgun from his person and set it on a shelf. The pistol simply sat there, a few feet away.
If I had the chance to reach for it, would I? If I didn’t, was I a product of my own enslavement? Of my papa’s death?
On edge and entranced by that murderous piece of metal, I almost jumped when he spoke, his tone dryly amused. “You’re not thinking about shooting me, are you?”
Eyes sliding to his, I grasped onto the first response that popped into my mind. “Depends. Would you die, or does it take a stake through the heart? I don’t want to waste my time.”
“A bullet hasn’t killed me yet, but there’s always a first time for everything.”
It wasn’t a surprise Ronan didn’t fear dying. Even in death, he’d probably sit on a throne made of skulls and lord over all the other sinners. Though, the idea of this man, so alive and virile, ceasing to exist seemed to be impossible and . . . strange.
“Would you cry for me, kotyonok?” His dark gaze consumed me as he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, and, somehow, the memory of his thumb wiping away my tears was so tangible, I felt the caress on my cheek like he’d touched me.
The walls closed in with each second of uncertain silence, tighter and tighter, until I decided to escape his presence. Only, when I moved by him, he grabbed my wrist.
“I didn’t say you could go.” The low words stroked the side of my neck, and an ember of heat stirred to life in my belly.
I tugged against his grip, so, of course, he pulled me closer. My bare feet touched his boots, breasts pressed against his hard chest. Heat washed through my body, vibrating wherever it met his, and I turned my head to avoid as much contact as possible. He could probably feel my racing heartbeat; the thrum that battled morality and temptation.
“I was just poisoned,” I said, my throat thick. “Maybe you can manhandle me later.”
I felt his smile. “Yulia says you’ve been doing paganistic rituals in your room.”
It was called yoga, but he knew that.
“She lies,” I managed to say, though as the knowledge he’d been keeping up on me sank in, complacency relaxed any resistance inside.
My body grew lax against his, and he took advantage of it, edging me backward until the backs of my thighs pressed against his dresser. I was trapped between two immovable objects, one devastating me with so much male heat my thoughts slowed and stalled. Now I was just a girl with a razor in hand, and he was just a man I once had feelings for.
I gripped the edge of the dresser with my free hand to steady myself. He released my wrist, and my breath grew erratic as his fingers skimmed down the outsides of my thighs until they reached the hem of my dress. The motion was slow, so charged I wasn’t sure I could speak or if I would even be heard over the electricity in the air. The mere expectation of his touch struck a match in every nerve ending.
A rough palm slid beneath my dress, over the curve of my hip, to my ass. When he found me only wearing a thong, he made a low sound in his throat and squeezed a bare cheek. I panted as his approval skated between my legs and expanded. His hand traveled to my lower back. The action pulled my dress farther up my thighs, leaving only a thin barrier of fabric between my core and the heat of his erection.
I kept my head angled away from his in a pathetic attempt for distance, but the desire to rock against him pulled at every ounce of restraint inside. Sanity told me, if I went there with him, it would be with the full force of a tsunami, and no amount of swimming would keep me afloat.
His lips skimmed down my neck, igniting a line of fire in their wake. “How long are we going to play this game?” The words were engulfed by a wave of static and constraint so thick, a single wrong move would set everything in this room ablaze.
I couldn’t think. I could hardly breathe. The need to let go tugged at my body, drawing me in with deviant words that said drowning was the best way to go.
When he nipped my neck, expecting a response, the wet heat of his mouth sent a cascade of pleasure down my spine. I tightened my grip on the dresser and fought the moan rising in my throat.
An image flashed in my mind, of Ronan standing on the edge of a dark pool just watching me sink to the bottom of it, my curly hair floating and aglow. The visual evoked the last bit of resistance within.
I turned my head to meet his gaze. “As long as you plan on killing my papa.”
He held my stare for so long, something in me thought maybe, just maybe, I had something he wanted enough to forget his revenge. Then he stepped away from me, his shoulders tight.
I exhaled, an uneasy shake flaring in my veins.
“Get out.” He turned from me and continued unbuttoning his cuffs like I was an unwanted distraction. “And, kotyonok.” A narrowed gaze met mine. “If I find you in my room again, I’ll take it as an invitation.”
I held his dark gaze for a moment. And then I disappeared from his room, vowing to never set foot in it again.
