toska
(n.) a dull ache of the soul
MILA
I woke among black sheets and a woodsy scent that consumed every one of my senses. Ronan sat in a chair beside the bed. His eyes were lowered, and his elbows rested on his knees as he twisted my heart-shaped earring between his thumb and forefinger. A single turn of the synthetic diamond symbolized our relationship: He held my heart in the palm of his hand, bringing it out to play sometimes before putting it back in his pocket to be forgotten.
He wasn’t aware I was awake, and I took the opportunity to view his private moment. Still in nothing but his briefs, his hair glinted blue in the sunlight and was mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. He was ink and vengeance and so very human beneath cold, steel armor.
In Moscow, cartoon hearts danced in my eyes when I saw him. Now, in this wintery Russian fortress, the sight of him created a sharp ache in my chest that threatened to rip me in half.
I wondered if Ronan’s conscience was responsible for him changing his mind about leaving me for dead, or simply the fact he’d have to forfeit his collateral. He’d surprised me by apologizing, though he was the one who told me apologies were worthless. Clearly, he couldn’t stomach the thought of being close to me for longer than it took to make sure I didn’t die.
The earring fell from his fingers and sparkled as it bounced off the marble floor before rolling beneath the bed. My heartache disappeared in the dark where childhood monsters lay, leaving a coldness to spread within like spiderwebs of frost.
I covered my bare breasts with the sheet and sat up on the bed. Ronan’s dark gaze lifted to mine. He didn’t look tired, but something told me he was used to sleepless nights.
“Kirill came to see you already,” he said. “You slept through it.”
I found the fact he sent for a doctor slightly interesting—nothing more. Not seeing my clothes anywhere, I wrapped the sheet around me and stood.
“You didn’t need to bother him again but thank you.”
“Thank you,” he repeated drily as if he couldn’t decide whether he was annoyed by the words or simply didn’t understand them.
“Spasibo.” I translated it to Russian for him and padded to the door, the black sheet trailing behind me like a woman in virginal mourning.
“I know what you fucking said,” he grated. “And I didn’t say you could go.”
Obediently, I stopped in the doorway and turned to him, welcoming the numb sensation within. Ronan could move me around like one of Yulia’s dolls right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. My compliance was what he’d wanted all this time, yet by the hard glitter in his eyes, it seemed he still wasn’t happy.
As he stood and strode toward me, I coasted my stare to the corner of the room—mostly because looking at him shook the composure inside. Like a splatter of paint on a white canvas.
“How do you feel?”
“Hungry,” I said simply.
Ronan made an impatient noise, now standing within arm’s reach, and demanded, “Your eyes, Mila.”
I pulled my gaze to his but stared through him. His attention warmed my face, the irritation in the air intensifying with each tick of silence. Then he reached up and ran a thumb across my cheek.
“No tears for me this morning?”
“Do you wish for my tears?” My tone conveyed I would muster up a few if he did.
His jaw tightened. An angry sound rose in his throat, then he pushed my face away and turned his back to me.
“May I go now?”
He shook his head and gritted, “You may,” before slamming the bathroom door behind him.
I bumped into Yulia in my bedroom doorway. She held out a glass of water and two ibuprofen for my wrist. As I plopped the pills in my mouth and swallowed them down with a drink, I thought I saw a flicker of softness in her gaze. Though it disappeared with a purse of her lips and the next words from her mouth.
“If she profanes herself by whoring, she shall be burned with fire.” Then she grabbed the glass from my hand, brushed past me, and headed down the hall, humming.
I was really living the dream here. No doubt Captive Barbie would be in stores next season.
After taking a hot shower, I drifted into the dining room for breakfast. Completely unconcerned with my presence, Kylie’s twin set the table between bouts of texting and delicate giggles. It was only when I poured a cup of tea that she stilled to examine me like bacteria under a microscope.
“They say you are Mikhailova,” she said very slowly.
The last thing I wanted was to make small talk, but my manners forced me to respond. “They’re correct.”
“They also say you are witch.”
I could only give a hint of a smile.
“You do not look like one.” Her unimpressed gaze slid down my wet hair and T-shirt dress. “Or like prisoner.”
“I guess they come in many shapes and forms.” I wasn’t sure if we were talking about being a witch or a prisoner at this point, though I guessed the statement worked for both.
“You seem . . .” She frowned as if she had to force the word out. “Nice. But what do they say?” She tapped her lips in thought, then her eyes lit up with a snap of her fingers. “Blood will out.”
Her excitement to use the expression watered down the insult. Apparently, she’d heard the rumors of my mother. Or my papa. I guessed I had a lot of bad blood on both sides, but it was clear she spoke of the former when her gaze slid to the hickey on my neck and she purred, “Though it seems you have already gone down that road.”
Kylie was a total buzzkill. I didn’t respond and added some sugar to my tea, which seemed to annoy her.
“You must know he does not actually vant you.”
A kernel of bitterness infiltrated my chest. It must be everyone’s mission to ruin my pleasant state of depression this morning.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I told her blandly, “but yes, I’m fully aware.”
Ronan stepped through the doorway dressed in Givenchy, and by the hint of violence in his gaze, he’d overheard the conversation. What an eavesdropper.
He sat down in his chair like any other morning. I was again invisible to Kylie as she turned her full attention to Ronan and worked on his place setting. It couldn’t be more obvious she’d waited to do it until he arrived. And, really, how many forks did he need? I buttered a piece of toast and ignored the scene while she spoke to him in Russian.
“Tea. Then get the fuck out of my house.”
My butter knife faltered for a split second. That was a, “You’re fired!” to rival The Apprentice. Kylie shot me a hostile expression as if it was my fault, quickly poured Ronan’s tea, and fled the room.
“Do you seriously let people talk to you like that?” Ronan growled, his irate gaze on me. I avoided looking at him as if he were Medusa.
“Like what?”
“Don’t play games with me.” His anger chafed my skin. “She practically called you a whore.”
The fact he was acting like he cared swept over me in an itchy wave of frustration, but if I didn’t contain all feeling, I was afraid I’d explode like Hiroshima.
“You love calling me a whore,” I returned indifferently. “And you told me to not patronize your staff. I was just doing what you told me to.”
With a growl, he gripped my face and turned it to his. I didn’t fight the hold, but I refused to meet his gaze. The eye contact would turn me to stone and then crack—right down the middle.
“If you’re trying to please me right now, you’re failing massively.”
“Just tell me what you’d like me to do in those situations, and I promise, I’ll do better next time.”
“You can start by not pretending you don’t give a fuck.” When he released me roughly, I promptly turned my attention back to my plate. I knew he was talking about last night, but I played dumb.
“I don’t care what your servants think of me.”
“I swear to God, Mila.” He stole the fork from my hand and placed it next to all five of his.
Searching through the multitude of dishes on the table, I asked, “Do you have peanut butter? I prefer peanut butter on my toast.”
“You’re going hungry until we talk about last night.”
Nope. Not having that conversation. Just the thought agitated my self-control and expanded an emotional demon in my chest that grabbed ahold of my throat. I wouldn’t give this man one more tear.
His phone rang, and while he pulled it from his pocket and hit ignore, I tipped a dish to look inside of it, frowning at the sight of honey. “Why don’t we just make a party of it and stomp on some bees for breakfast?”
“Stop. With the. Goddamn. Dishes.” He was close to throwing me out with the dogs again.
“I don’t like dry toast,” I said, continuing to peruse the condiments. “Seriously, no peanut butter? Are you on a budget or something?”
With one calm flick of his hand, the entire twelve-seater table tipped on its side, taking down chairs in its path. Dishes, plates, and silverware slid across the wood and clattered to the marble floor. The bang rattled my bones, washing away the numbness inside of me on a hot tide of resentment.
There went my freaking breakfast.
My burning gaze slid to Ronan to see he had the audacity to sit back in his throne and straighten his jacket cuff.
“I think you’re holding a grudge, kotyonok. Not so altruistic now, are you?”
Heat cascaded down my body like an avalanche. “You’re one to talk,” I snapped and shot to my feet. “The only reason I’m here is due to one massive grudge you have with my papa.”
“Sit the fuck down.”
“You sit down!” He wasn’t even standing. He sat all composed as if he hadn’t just destroyed the room and my good mood.
Inked finger tapping the armrest, he said darkly, “Your papa is the last reason you’re still here.”
I was too unbalanced to figure out what he meant. The confusion only sparked more anger within.
“You shouldn’t have fired Kylie,” I told him coldly. “She’d appreciate your evasiveness and peach emojis more than I ever could.”
“She’s a manipulative bitch. And I didn’t like the way she was talking to you.”
“Please,” I scoffed, turning away from him. “What she said was less insulting than what you’ve said to me.”
“You want me to apologize for that too?”
I spun to face him. “I want you to let me go!”
My chest heaved in the silence that followed. Too late, I realized I was looking him in the eyes, which were blue and unwavering. I felt myself turning to stone. Cracks weaved through my resolve, splintering the anger and flooding in the thick emotion I didn’t want. The ache returned to my chest so intensely tears burned their way to the surface.
I turned to walk away from him, through the maze of chairs, but I didn’t reach the door. He grabbed my wrist and forced my back against the overturned table before bracing his hands on either side to cage me in. By the tension lining his shoulders, he was completely fed up with me.
“I don’t regret a lot of things, kotyonok, but I do regret what I did last night.”
“Because you almost lost your collateral,” I replied emotionlessly.
“No,” he said harshly. “Because you could have died.”
I wanted to believe him so much a cold sweat spread through me, but his voice was also so heavy my lungs fought for a dose of oxygen. I needed air, though when I tried to escape, he wouldn’t let me go. Not from the room, the house, or his life. The hold he had on my waist was like granite; hard but smooth to the touch. Futilely, I struggled even as the smell of him—a scent so rough and persuasive—reached my heart, convincing me the last thing I wanted was for him to let me go.
“Tell me what you really want from me, kotyonok. You can have it. Anything besides letting you go.”
A part of me desired to say I wanted nothing else from him, but it was a lie. It seemed I couldn’t force those words past my lips even to save my own soul. It was already his.
“You want to make it even and shoot me for real?” He pulled back and forced cold metal into my palm. “Go for it. It’s fully loaded this time.”
Just the weight of the gun broke a dam inside me, sending hot tears down my cheeks. I sucked in a shaky breath and shook my head, letting the pistol drop to the floor.
“That’s not what I want.”
“A treasure chest of fake diamonds?” He wiped a tear away with a thumb, and the caress pulled honesty from my throat.
“I want you to care . . .” The words settled so thick and uninvited in the room they made my ears ring. It went so silent one could hear a pin drop. Or a heart-shaped earring.
Ronan’s hand dropped from my face, and with a harsh sound, he pushed away from me. “You’re a goddamn headache, you know that?”
His reaction hit me in the chest. I was the headache? He was the one who was so hot and cold, he gave me whiplash. I may be embarrassing myself again, but at the end of this, I would regret not having told him the truth. I would regret acting as if I didn’t care. Now, he knew, and clearly, he didn’t mean I could have “anything” by his look of disgust. This was turning out to be a really shitty day.
“I guess I’ll take the fake diamonds then,” I muttered and headed to the door.
“I feed my captive vegan,” he growled.
The force of his voice stilled me.
“She spends her days doing yoga and playing in the yard and her nights reading classics by the fireplace.” His sardonic tone lacked humor.
I couldn’t decide if he was insulting me or showing he did care in his own twisted way. I wanted to hear more, but all I could do was turn around and accuse, “You’ve been spying on me.”
“Be quiet,” he snapped. “This is my monologue.”
I closed my mouth.
“Keeping you here is a slap in the face to my men, but it seems I don’t give a fuck about that.” The eye contact seared. “The longer I put off revenge, the closer I get to another war with your papa. And I don’t give a fuck about that either.”
My throat tightened at the thought I was a source of that kind of violence. I had no idea my presence here had caused so much trouble.
His gaze narrowed. “You pull a trigger on me, and I can’t even leave you out in the cold for fifteen fucking minutes. So you tell me, Mila, who cares more here?”
The words crept beneath my skin, wrapped around my heart like barbed wire, and tightened a fight-or-flight response in my muscles. I fought the impulse to flee even as he took a step toward me, violence reflecting in his eyes.
“You were going to catch a plane home without saying a word to me, weren’t you?”
I swallowed. He knew I was planning to leave after the night I spent with him in my hotel room. For some reason, the knowledge contracted my chest with guilt. Ronan moved closer. His animosity wrapped around my body as his fingers gripped my face, forcing a ragged exhale from me.
“Am I that easy to leave, kotyonok?”
My breath shallowed at the angry vulnerability he let me see. The worst part was, I shared it: the fear of being abandoned; of not being good enough. This weakness of his twisted my chest. It forced me to change my view of him forever. I’d never again see him as the monster I’d once thought he was but as the hungry, abused boy the worst part of humanity had shaped into a cold-hearted man.
My heart felt so heavy, it compelled me to frame his face with my hands and skim my lips against his scar. The soft action contrasted his rough grip holding me in place. He tensed like he wasn’t sure what I was doing; like he’d never been touched this way before in his life; like he was expecting pain to follow. His simple reaction was my undoing.
“You wanted my misery, but I’m giving you my forgiveness,” I breathed, voice thick. “When you let me go, I won’t turn you in even though I should. I can’t be the person to send you back to prison . . .” I inhaled raggedly. “I’ll walk away when this is over and I won’t look back—though not because I hate you but because I don’t. Not even a little bit . . .”
The words settled around us for a beat before he said drily, “This is getting too close to a Nicholas Sparks movie for me, kotyonok. I just wanted to convince you to let me fuck you again.”
“I’m an emotional fuck,” I replied. “Get over it.”
He chuckled roughly. When my thumb brushed over his scar, he nipped it hard between straight white teeth. I hissed in pain and pulled it free with a glare.
“I’m a rough fuck,” he returned. “Get over it.” The look in his eyes turned turbulent. “If you want to turn me in, so be it. I’d go back to prison for you, kotyonok, but when I get out, there’d better be an ocean between us.”
I suddenly couldn’t even imagine returning to The Moorings; to Carter and the lonely sounds of the Atlantic. A weight compressed my chest, forcing the word from my lips.
“Why?”
His fingers tightened on my cheeks, voice dark. “You have no idea what you would be unleashing on Moscow after years of celibacy.”
As his words sank in, a hot rush of jealousy evaporated all other emotion. The idea of him with other women kicked me in the gut. My entire body rebelled against the idea. I suddenly wanted to imprint myself on him; to make him remember me forever—no matter the consequences.
I grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged his mouth to mine, sliding my tongue between his lips. He hissed and lifted me so I could wrap my legs around his hips. I’d never felt so small; so feminine and complete. I suddenly knew I would never feel this again; never fit so well with someone else; never meet another man like this.
I may as well enjoy the happily-for-now while it lasted.
He pressed my back against the overturned table and licked the roof of my mouth. At the taste of him and the heat of his body, a fire brewed inside, searing need through me in thick waves. I hummed against his lips, dying for more—for everything he had. Grinding against him and unable to find the friction I needed, a frustrated noise escaped me.
“Fuck me,” I breathed, tugging at his belt buckle.
He groaned and pulled back. “Not here.”
“Here,” I begged, closing the gap again and nipping his bottom lip. “Any way you want. Please.”
“Nyet.” He tried to slide me down his body, but my legs tightened around him. I felt how hard he was and relished in his reaction—that is, until he gripped my ponytail and yanked my head back. “Don’t tempt me, kotyonok,” he growled. “I’m not noble enough to turn down the offer.”
“Then don’t.”
He watched me for a second. “Jesus Christ.” With a frustrated noise like he was in pain, he released my hair. “I’ve Stockholm syndromed you.”
I fought a smile. “Mmm,” I agreed and sucked at his neck. “Now you have to deal with the consequences.” I dragged my mouth to his, and after a second of kissing his tepid lips, he kissed me back, gliding his tongue against mine. An empty ache pulsed between my legs, and I grinded against him.
“I need it,” I pleaded.
He stilled my movements. “You’ll get it in my room where someone can’t just walk in.”
“Then take me to your room . . . please.”
One of his “fucks” sounded, and I kissed it off his lips then slid my mouth down his neck, sucking and biting wherever I could reach. D’yavol carried me to his bedroom, and the fact I was here against my will no longer mattered when I knew he’d fill the void inside me.
In one way, at least.
