Hot sweat permeated my skin, which made me shiver. My limbs were as weak as jelly, and tears saturated my cheeks from the presence of his fingers down my throat. But the knowledge he hadn’t done this to me filled me with a disturbing amount of relief that alleviated the grip on my lungs.

When he lifted me, my eyes opened, and I blinked against the harsh light. Yulia dashed from the room after Ronan growled something at her.

Rainbow-colored vomit stained my sunflower dress and Ronan’s Tom Ford suit. I wondered if this was how I would die, poisoned by black tea in the devil’s arms. I wondered if hell would feel as welcoming; if it had an accent, sharp incisors, and inked hands.

Madame Richie’s laugh resounded in my mind, sending a chill down my spine that disturbed me so much I said between weak pants, “With how much I’ve puked around you, you’d think you would take the hint.”

“Ne govori.” Don’t talk. It was soft but brusque.

He set me on the couch in the drawing room. As weight pulled on my muscles, I moved to lie down, but, on his haunches in front of me, Ronan held me in a sitting position by the back of my neck.

Yulia, whose dry expression conveyed she believed I was being dramatic, handed Ronan a glass of water and a white pill he tried to put in my mouth. I shied away from his hand and shook my head.

“Voz’mi tabletku.”

My head pounded. I didn’t have the energy to try to decipher the rough Russian.

“English, please.”

A fleeting pause in his eyes vanished with something volatile. “Take the fucking pill, Mila.”

He drugged me once before, and I should have learned my lesson. Although, with my puke on his shirt, my name on his lips still lingering in the air, and the closeness of his gaze, I let him put the pill in my mouth before I forced it down my sore throat with a drink of water.

His phone rang, and he stood to answer it. I took the opportunity to lean my head against the armrest and close my eyes to alleviate the ache behind them. A pat to my face made me groan and open them again.

“Ne zasypay,” he told me.

“English,” I reminded him.

After a second of awareness that told me he didn’t realize he’d spoken Russian, he clenched his teeth and walked away to continue terrorizing whoever was on the phone. My eyelids were so heavy I allowed them to close again, but the peace was interrupted by another pat to my cheek.

I glared at Ronan as best as I could manage. “Stop it.”

Phone to his ear, his gaze bore into mine. “If you fall asleep, I will spank your ass.”

We stared at each other for a long second. If he hadn’t done so for throwing tea in his face, he wouldn’t punish me for falling asleep after I was poisoned. Although, for some reason, I let him have the threat and forced my eyes to stay open.

A moment passed, and he released me from his gaze and walked to the front door. He returned with a familiar face: the doctor I met my first night in Moscow. The one who tried to warn me. This home seemed so remote, I had no idea how he managed to get here so fast. My imagination played a scene of the doctor in the underworld boarding a train called Satan’s Express. Nothing would surprise me anymore. While the two men shared Russian words, Kirill kneeled in front of me, shined a light in my eyes, and checked my pulse. It seemed I’d come full circle, but this time, I knew the devil was in the room.

When Kirill pulled an IV bag and a needle from his briefcase, anxiety pulsed through me in waves. Tired muscles shook as I forced myself to my feet, and, swaying slightly, I nonchalantly announced, “I’m going to my room.”

Kirill frowned and said something to Ronan, who, with an ounce of dry amusement, caught me by the waist and pulled me back.

Weakly struggling against him, I said, “Really. I feel fine.”

Ronan forced me onto the couch. “We’re going to discuss your habit of lying later.” He lowered to his haunches in front of me and brushed a piece of vomit-covered hair from my sweaty face. “Right now, you’re going to let Kirill treat you.”

“I don’t want to do this,” I breathed frantically. “Can we do it tomorrow?”

The look he gave me said, No. He nodded at Kirill to continue before saying to him, “Sdelay vse pravilno s pervogo raza.”

Kirill swallowed thickly. I didn’t need to know what Ronan said to know he’d just threatened him.

I tensed and closed my eyes tight, but the sharp pinch of the needle in the top of my hand didn’t send my blood pressure diving like I expected. Maybe it was already too low. Or maybe being captive in this house changed my body’s perception of what I should fear. It wasn’t a needle or blood. Somehow, it wasn’t even D’yavol on his haunches in front of me.

I opened my eyes to see the IV was in, the bag set up. A cool fluid shot through my blood, up my arm. My tired, half-lidded gaze met Ronan’s, and the moment stretched through time and space as my body fought the poison within. But holding this man’s stare was like looking into a well that granted immortality. It shimmered, beckoning me to jump into its dark depths, and obliterated the fear inside I might never make it back out.

“Am I going to die?” The soft words escaped me.

His gaze darkened. “Nyet.”

One should never trust a monster, but as something heavy filled my chest, I believed him. If anyone understood death, it was this man with eyes as black as coal. That is, unless an unsuspecting victim got too close and saw they sparkled like tanzanite.

I let my head drop against the back of the couch. He still had puke on his hand, having wiped some of it on his pants, yet he looked put together, too composed to be real. The sight reminded me of his previous words. “I swam.” A memory resurfaced, of my papa teaching me to swim off a yacht in the Atlantic after he strapped so many flotation devices to me I would be carried away like a balloon in a strong wind.

A nostalgic smile touched my lips as I asked, “How did you learn to swim?”

He watched me for a second. “When I was eight, in the back seat of a car after my mother put a brick on the gas pedal and drove it into the Moskva.”

The smile slipped from my lips. I stared at him, the words tightening around my throat with cold fingers. He didn’t look away. He didn’t even seem to realize the horror of what he just said. Thankfully, Kirill interrupted the chaos in my mind by handing me a mask and gesturing for me to place it over my mouth. Avoiding Ronan’s gaze, I breathed the treatment in for a few seconds while the doctor checked my blood pressure and spoke to him in Russian.

Suddenly too tired to keep my eyes open, I drifted in and out of consciousness.

I woke to movement and the softness of my bed beneath me.

“Up,” Ronan said.

Understanding the command, I groggily lifted my arms, and he pulled my dress over my head. He ripped the seam from the collar to the sleeve so he could get it off with the IV in my hand. It was my favorite dress, but I didn’t have the energy to complain. Not even as he unclipped my sweat-soaked bra and pulled it off along with my underwear and socks.

I was naked, inside and out. On his haunches beside me, he worked the IV bag through my bra strap, and my chest tightened when I saw the faint mark on his cheek. I couldn’t stop myself from running my fingers across it.

He stilled, eyes lifting to mine.