Deepening the kiss, I released a suppressed moan. He swallowed it, brushing his tongue against mine. Consumed by fire and ice, I arched against him, desperate for contact, for friction, for absolution.

But hell had brought me here.

And hell would get me out.

I teased his lips with mine, licked, bit, pressed, and breathed, an ache blooming between my legs I would suddenly do anything to fill, period be damned. Exhaling a desperate hum into his mouth, I pressed closer, my body flush with his. His grip tightened on my thigh, and the restraint behind it—the idea he could bruise me, hurt me, but didn’t—only made me desperate for more.

He made an angry noise when I started to grind against the hard length of him in an effort to alleviate the ache, and that was when he pushed my leg off him and abruptly stepped away.

I was doused with cold water outside and in, but it didn’t steal the heat he left behind. Chest heaving with each breath, I watched him turn off the shower and work my wrists free like nothing happened, like he wasn’t affected at all, while I felt turned inside out, one foot in the underworld, and the other unsteady.

Then he walked away, leaving the door of my cage open with the chance of freedom beyond, but I could do nothing except stare after his retreat, shivering, with red wrists and the warmth of his mouth still on mine.

qui vive

(n.) heightened awareness or watchfulness

“It is time for lunch.” The lace hem of Yulia’s dress that went out of fashion two centuries ago swayed as she came to a stop in the doorway.

I sat on the settee in the drawing room, sightlessly staring out the large front window. “I’m busy.” Stewing in my own despair . . . But busy all the same.

Her eyes narrowed.

I’d thrown tea into Ronan’s face, and he didn’t kill me. He didn’t even leave a permanent mark. On my body at least. As for my mind, pride wouldn’t let me dwell on it, especially because the burn of his scruff and the ache that came to life still hadn’t dissolved. It was there, a perverse and restless coil of need.

Now I had the gut instinct he didn’t want to torture me physically, but I was also sure he found it a diverting amusement to smash my soft heart beneath his boot. Why else would he play with me for so long when revenge was his intention from the beginning? Maybe he was just trying to get a decent video. Although, he didn’t even attempt to come into my hotel room after he took me to lunch.

“He will lock you back in your room,” Yulia warned.

I gave her a look of resentment, then got to my feet and followed her to the dining room, asking, “Yulia, did you know my mother?”

“Everyone knew your mother. She was famous.” She scrunched her nose. “I do not understand why God would allow that woman to be so talented. Though He does work in mysterious ways . . .”

“What was she like?”

“Immoral.”

Sleeping past seven a.m. was immoral to Yulia.

“Can you be more specific?”

“She fornicated with everything that moved.”

“So she was sexually liberated.” I was trying to see the best at all costs here.

Yulia stopped in the dining room doorway and gave me a harsh look. “Fornication is a sin. And so is adultery.” She must have said that because my mother slept with my papa while he was married. “She was also prideful, greedy, and cruel.”

“Yulia,” I sighed. “You’re just naming all the deadly sins.”

She arched a brow. “You do not believe me?”

“I’m trying to believe you, but you’re not giving me anything to work with besides she was a real bad sinner.”

Her eyes narrowed. “She helped your papa with his work.” She tilted her head and gave me an almost sympathetic look. “Though I do not think you are ready to hear how.”

An uneasy energy slid through me. Curiosity begged me to ask, but my heart told me maybe I really wasn’t ready. So I took a seat at the table, where, alone, I was served golubtsy by the same silent maid. I cut into a cabbage roll, noticing the cook had left out the animal products. Surprisingly, all the meals I was served were vegan.

After finishing the meal, I headed to the entryway. My faux fur coat hung from a hook, and a pair of my ankle boots sat on the floor like I was just an overnight guest. I donned the coat and shoes and stepped outside.

Both guards on each side of the double doors went silent. In fact, everyone in the yard quieted, watching my steps as I walked off the circular drive and trudged through the thick snow. If I ran, they’d probably shoot me in the leg. Couldn’t kill Ronan’s collateral after all.

I made my way to the outbuilding that served as a kennel. The dogs ran the length of the chain-link enclosure as they watched me coming. I stopped in front of it, kneeled in my luxurious coat in the snow, and told them what nice puppies they were. With very sharp teeth.

When I was somewhat confident they wouldn’t bite me, I offered my hand through the fence, palm up. Only one of them came up to sniff me, while the others stayed put as if they didn’t want to stoop so low to be petted by me. I scratched the friendly one’s furry neck and smiled when he licked my hand. I’d never had a dog. Papa didn’t like them. But I’d always wanted one.

A sable-furred German shepherd with a surly expression stood alone near the doggy door, hackles raised at my presence. I spoke to him softly, but he kept his distance, tail flicking and fur on end. Feeling like I’d distressed him enough, I got up to take a short walk around the house. The guards’ eyes prickled on my back like I was caught in a sight’s crosshairs.

Clouds parted, the sun sparkling against the snow. Trees lined the edges of the property, and I wondered how far I would have to walk to find civilization or even just a road with the occasional passerby. Although, even if a highway sat three feet outside of Ronan’s yard, I wasn’t sure how I’d reach it. Not with his constant night watch and dogs who were undoubtedly faster than me.

Having free rein of the house, I took advantage of it. It took hours to peek into every nook and cranny on the first floor, but, unfortunately, I didn’t find a secret passageway that led out of here.

I hated the truth of the matter, but it was a gorgeous house.

Original paintings covered the walls, every piece of furniture held a timeless charm, and each room set a different mood. It felt like a home, not four walls of stationary stone.

And then I found the library.

Shelves stretched to the high ceiling, crammed full of books with a variety of colored spines. A large mahogany desk sat at the front of the room, and the smell of cloves saturated the air. I didn’t know what I found more offensive: the fact Ronan smoked next to a shelf of first editions, or that I would have to share this space with him for however long he kept me here.

The first book I pulled off the shelf was Paradise Lost by John Milton. How ironic. The novel was a set of poems depicting Satan as arrogant and instrumental to his own downfall, and, eventually, he lost the fight against God.

I dropped the book on Ronan’s desk on the way out.

The one glaring thing the house lacked was electronics. I didn’t find a single telephone, radio, or computer. Either the frequencies disrupted Ronan’s communications with the underworld, or he got rid of any way I could reach out for help.