“We’re not going to talk about how you grinded on my cock yesterday?”

A flush washed up my neck, but I still managed to pop the P on, “Nope.”

“A-plus on creativity, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

He chuckled, and after the soft laugh filled the corners of the room, he pushed the box of cereal and almond milk toward me.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “Eat.”

I glared at him for a second but, knowing this wasn’t a battle I wanted to start, I acquiesced and poured a bowl, ignoring the stupid sensation that surfaced at the idea he still cared enough to force me to eat. My heart should be committed.

Frustrated with all these feelings, I decided to do the bare minimum and pick through the dry cereal with my fingers, eating one piece at a time and as slowly as possible. Holding his annoyed stare, I put a Fruit Loop in my mouth with a saucy crunch.

I didn’t know if he wanted to smile or kill me. “The last man who tested me the way you do is floating in the Moskva in seven different pieces.”

A bite of cereal caught in my throat, but I refused to cough or look away. Even having seen Ronan murder, I sometimes forgot the type of man he was. Maybe my view was distorted by the side effects of captivity, or by his smile, laugh, and handsome face. Although, deep down, I knew it wasn’t those things.

I forced the cereal down my throat and plopped another in my mouth. “I guess I’m narcissistic I’m not a man then.”

“You being a woman has nothing to do with it.”

The childhood memory of my papa’s girlfriend resurfaced, and I pulled my gaze from him, chest suddenly tight. “I don’t want special treatment.” I don’t deserve it. “You should treat me like anyone else who happens to look at you the wrong way.”

“I find your sacrificial lamb mentality nauseating.”

“I’m sure selflessness is hard for you to stomach,” I said in understanding.

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

“Charismatic gangster who’s an introvert at heart? Sexual deviant? A villain with a sad past I refuse to sympathize with? Check, check, check. If you were a subject on my SATs, I’d ace it.”

A hint of a laugh passed through his eyes. “I have no idea where you come up with this shit.”

What I would never tell him was, I’d always been a bit of an introvert too.

“Where I come from, you either sink or swim. I swam.” His voice pulled me into his web, demon-spun, and as strong as his knots. “Can’t say the same, can you?”

The cereal in my stomach soured. I hated how he could pick apart my flaws, my secrets, and then practically throw them in my face. I focused on my cup of tea and took a sip. Scrunching my nose at the bitter taste, I added some sugar.

“Did you enjoy your day of freedom?” he asked.

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘freedom.’”

“Maybe, but mine is the only one that matters, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know why he had to wind me up until it felt as if I would pop like a jack-in-the-box. Maybe so I’d “misbehave,” and then he’d have a reason to punish me and sate his sadistic soul.

“You can continue to have free rein of my home, but don’t engage my men.” A threat tainted his voice.

Stirring my tea, I offered him a saccharine smile. “Why? Because I’m a lowly Mikhailov who shouldn’t deign to speak?”

“Your words, not mine.”

The whimsical, mocking tune of my childhood toy played in my head as Ronan cranked the lever—not only from the degrading nuance in his voice, but because I forgot what a bastard the man was just yesterday, and I couldn’t have humiliated myself more.

“If you despise me so much just because of who my papa is, then I feel sorry for you.”

He gave a dry, amused look. “Coming from someone who spread her legs for her papa’s enemy two seconds after meeting him. Perhaps the one who should be pitied here is you.”

“That’s your opinion. And it sucks.” So did this tea. The bitterness left a thick aftertaste on my tongue.

A volatile energy condensed the room and slowed the beat of my heart. I said I wasn’t perfect, and I was beginning to learn I had a fiery temper and more pride than sense.

“I hope using me to fulfill your twisted desire for revenge doesn’t weigh too heavily on your pin-size conscience.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re concerned for my welfare, but just to clear the air . . .” His eyes darkened. “I’ve enjoyed every second of it.”

Loathing burned a hole through my stomach as “Pop Goes the Weasel” grew louder and louder in my ears. Then, something vengeful, almost sensual, arose to trace the edges of my voice.

“I think you’re enjoying it more than you’d like.”

He went still, and then his gaze slowly lifted to examine me like I was toxic. Somehow, the bitter tea went down smoothly beneath the force of his stare.

“We both know I could have you any way I want. Unfortunately for you, I have better things to do than Mikhailov whores.”

A pop sounded in my chest, releasing an explosion of fire that turned my vision a hazy red. The slap to his face vibrated in the room and stung my palm, but the sight of his reddened cheek and violent gaze didn’t quell the pounding of blood in my ears.

I was doused in flames, in regret and confusion. He’d taken everything from me—my papa, my mother’s memory, my innocence—and still, I couldn’t even slap him without a tight sensation of remorse and an apology rising in my throat. I hated it. I hated this house. But what I hated the most was what I didn’t hate.

The pull between the feelings wreaked havoc on my body and the dining room. I shot to my feet and swept dishes off the table to the floor, including his stupid bowl of Fruit Loops. Fine china shattered.

He merely watched me smash every breakable item on the table, and when there was nothing else left to throw, my body shook, self-loathing pulsing through me in waves.

“Are you finished?”

My heart slowed to a short bu-bum, bu-bum, and all the blood inside rose to ache in my head. Violence was supposed to be a release, but I didn’t feel so good. Nausea turned my stomach while I tried to catch my breath. A glare from the overhead light singed my eyes, sending a ringing through my ears, and I winced.

“Mila.” Ronan never called me that, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the tightness in my lungs. There wasn’t enough oxygen in here, though when I tried to move to find fresh air, a wave of dizziness took ahold of me, and I grasped the table to steady myself.

Something was wrong with me . . . As a fierce wave of sickness roiled within, an anchor dragged my heart down.

The tea.

Sudden tears ran down my cheeks. My desolate eyes met Ronan’s, and my words reeked of betrayal.

“You poisoned me.”

One of his “fucks” hit my ears before he shot out of his chair and caught me by the waist just as my legs gave out.

With my back to his chest, he shoved two fingers down my throat. I gagged on them, then threw up on his hand and the marble floor. He did it again, and again, until nothing else came up, and I begged him to stop.