God was laughing at me when he delivered my revenge straight to my hands wrapped in a perfect, environmentally friendly package. Although, he must not have accounted for Mila to practically beg me to take advantage of her.

From the moment she came on me, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt with innocent desperation like I was the only one who could give it to her, it brought out a deep, unnerving fire in my groin. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t impairing my decisions.

I despised how much I wanted to fuck Alexei’s daughter, but I hated being called out on my shit even more.

“Get out of my sight.” I shoved Kostya away from me. “You disgust me.”

He got to his feet, wiped some blood with the back of a hand, and disappeared out the door. Putting my Makarov in the back of my waistband, I rolled the anger off my shoulders and returned to the back room.

“Albert.” I snapped my fingers. “Let’s go.”

He rose from his haunches and tossed a bloody rag to the floor.

Outside, I slid into the back seat next to Mila, and when I adjusted for space, her head came to rest on my lap. She had hair for days, the color of wheat and summertime. I went to slide my fingers through her ponytail but stopped the impulse when I realized the ridiculous shit I just thought. Hitting my thirties had made me disgustingly sentimental.

Long blonde eyelashes rested on cheeks untouched by makeup. Full, parted lips. She looked innocent and vulnerable—but so did her mother, who’d been a real-life Poison Ivy, renowned for her voice though infamous for her sadomasochistic activities.

As naïve as Mila may seem, she was astute enough to see straight through me and to quote “The Raven.”

Too bad her soft heart was her downfall.

Her breathing grew a little shallow, and my chest tightened with the thought I’d injected her with too much etorphine. I slapped her face. She flinched like her sleep was disturbed, and the uncomfortable sensation faded.

I didn’t care about this girl.

I just didn’t like killing women.

Though, after my brother and I did nothing but watch while our mother choked on her own vomit, it wasn’t exactly an oddity. Some women deserved death. Especially my mother. And Mila’s for that matter.

Albert drove us to the house outside the city. It was over an hour’s drive at best, and I wondered what my pet would do if she awoke before we arrived. Would she cry, beg? Or would she show her Mikhailov colors?

Annoyed I couldn’t find out now, I almost regretted drugging her. But I didn’t have the patience for a hysterical woman in my car. It was the sedative or choking her until she passed out. The latter was less reliable, and something in me didn’t settle well at the idea of hearing her struggle for breath—even though any offspring of Alexei’s deserved that and more.

I pushed him out of Moscow last year. There could only be one ruler of this city, and I didn’t like to share. I assumed he would go lick his wounds elsewhere, but the bastard was a sore loser. Pasha’s mutilated body showed up on my doorstep three months ago. I saw red. My blood still burned just thinking about it. It was a fire that couldn’t be doused until I had Alexei’s head.

I didn’t think he had any love in him, but he must care for his daughter if he raised her in secrecy in America. Once he conceded, she’d be free to crawl home. Until then . . .

“Moy kotyonok.” I ran a thumb across her parted lips. “I told you this city would eat you alive.”

I just didn’t tell her I owned Moscow and everything in it.

morosis

(n.) the stupidest of stupidities

My mouth felt as dry as cotton. A strand of hair tickled my cheek. I reached up to scratch it, but confusion clouded my mind when my hands refused to move.

I peeled my eyes open, blinking against the light coming from the television in the otherwise dark and unfamiliar bedroom. My heartbeat trembled when I saw my wrists secured to the armrests of a wooden chair. I yanked against the ropes, but a soft moan brought my gaze to the TV on the dresser. I stared at the scene playing in front of my eyes, revulsion rising in my throat.

The moan on the screen came from me while I sat naked on Ronan’s lap, grinding on his hand.

He recorded us.

The video was shot from a high corner of my hotel room, on a camera that could have been there my entire stay. Humiliation churned in my stomach and twisted my heart like a wrung-out rag as I watched myself come and shudder against him.

Then the video began to play again.

I liked Ronan.

I cared.

And he was only using me.

Tears blurred my vision while I frantically pulled at the ropes on my wrists, trying to twist out of them. I froze when a heavy presence told me I was no longer alone.

Ronan stood in front of the door, a sliver of light fanning in from the hall. His eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, the black-on-black of his expensive clothes—they swallowed the shadows in the room.

Darkness there, and nothing more.

I called it in the beginning. Something inside of me always knew.

“You aren’t going to do much more than hurt yourself. I learned how to tie a knot in prison.”

The indifference in his voice penetrated my veins, freezing my blood from the inside out. I tensed as he moved closer, his gaze flicking to the TV to watch me gyrate on his lap.

“A video of you riding my cock would have been better, but regardless, you make a good show, kotyonok.”

This man wasn’t the one I came to know the past week. I realized now that “generous” man was nothing but a lie. Only someone sick could touch me, caress me, knowing all along I was just a pawn in whatever twisted game this was. I was so stupid. A stupid, naïve girl who’d walked right into a monster’s arms.

I winced when my muscles tightened, still feeling a sharp sting in the back of my neck from whatever he stuck me with.

“What did you give me?” I breathed, my voice wavering.

He leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms, his shoulders nearly blocking all the light from the TV. Only yesterday, I found his size and strength attractive. Now, it terrified me.

“Etorphine.”

It sounded familiar, and I placed where I’d heard of it: the show Dexter. It was what he used to knock his victims out before torturing them. Images of saws and detached limbs made my veins shake, especially as I recalled how Ronan cut off a man’s finger without any remorse.

If he had a demented urge to mutilate me, why would he need to record us? And if he worked for a sex trafficking ring, why wine and dine me for so long? He’d had multiple opportunities to kidnap me, including the first night I slept in his office.

Nothing made sense, and the unknown spread ice through me.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Such a loaded question,” he said, eyes on something small he twisted between his fingers. I knew it was my heart-shaped earring. “What do you think I want from you?”

I stared at him, my pulse racing with uncertainty.

“You really have no idea,” he drawled, gaze alight with amusement. “Apparently, they don’t make girls as smart as they used to.”

I was stupid. I knew it, and I accepted it. But hearing it from his lips sent a burst of fire through me.

“Just tell me what you want, you psychopath,” I snapped, yanking at the ropes on my wrists.