I felt his smile. “Yulia says you’ve been doing paganistic rituals in your room.”

It was called yoga, but he knew that.

“She lies,” I managed to say, though as the knowledge he’d been keeping up on me sank in, complacency relaxed any resistance inside.

My body grew lax against his, and he took advantage of it, edging me backward until the backs of my thighs pressed against his dresser. I was trapped between two immovable objects, one devastating me with so much male heat my thoughts slowed and stalled. Now I was just a girl with a razor in hand, and he was just a man I once had feelings for.

I gripped the edge of the dresser with my free hand to steady myself. He released my wrist, and my breath grew erratic as his fingers skimmed down the outsides of my thighs until they reached the hem of my dress. The motion was slow, so charged I wasn’t sure I could speak or if I would even be heard over the electricity in the air. The mere expectation of his touch struck a match in every nerve ending.

A rough palm slid beneath my dress, over the curve of my hip, to my ass. When he found me only wearing a thong, he made a low sound in his throat and squeezed a bare cheek. I panted as his approval skated between my legs and expanded. His hand traveled to my lower back. The action pulled my dress farther up my thighs, leaving only a thin barrier of fabric between my core and the heat of his erection.

I kept my head angled away from his in a pathetic attempt for distance, but the desire to rock against him pulled at every ounce of restraint inside. Sanity told me, if I went there with him, it would be with the full force of a tsunami, and no amount of swimming would keep me afloat.

His lips skimmed down my neck, igniting a line of fire in their wake. “How long are we going to play this game?” The words were engulfed by a wave of static and constraint so thick, a single wrong move would set everything in this room ablaze.

I couldn’t think. I could hardly breathe. The need to let go tugged at my body, drawing me in with deviant words that said drowning was the best way to go.

When he nipped my neck, expecting a response, the wet heat of his mouth sent a cascade of pleasure down my spine. I tightened my grip on the dresser and fought the moan rising in my throat.

An image flashed in my mind, of Ronan standing on the edge of a dark pool just watching me sink to the bottom of it, my curly hair floating and aglow. The visual evoked the last bit of resistance within.

I turned my head to meet his gaze. “As long as you plan on killing my papa.”

He held my stare for so long, something in me thought maybe, just maybe, I had something he wanted enough to forget his revenge. Then he stepped away from me, his shoulders tight.

I exhaled, an uneasy shake flaring in my veins.

“Get out.” He turned from me and continued unbuttoning his cuffs like I was an unwanted distraction. “And, kotyonok.” A narrowed gaze met mine. “If I find you in my room again, I’ll take it as an invitation.”

I held his dark gaze for a moment. And then I disappeared from his room, vowing to never set foot in it again.

fasta

(n.) unwavering in devotion to friend or vow or cause

The next morning, our breakfast “dates” continued. However, the atmosphere couldn’t be tenser if a ticking time bomb sat beside the teapot. I just didn’t know the silence was about to detonate in a way that would make an actual explosive a better alternative.

An edginess flared at the memory of last night. The pressure of Ronan’s body against mine awoke a heat wave beneath my skin that was so hot, I tossed and turned all night in emptiness and confusion. Even now, a restless ache persisted between my legs.

I curled my toes against the marble, knowing I should be ashamed of the feeling—especially since Ronan seemed to have forgotten last night entirely by his apathetic demeanor—but I refused to send myself on another guilt trip.

Instead of the silent maid, another woman served our food, and she was not the docile, invisible type. She could be Kylie Jenner’s blonde twin. I wouldn’t be surprised if the servant’s eyelashes were thickly mascaraed by the celebrity’s makeup line.

Slowly, she set dishes on the table, the clink of each one followed by a glance in Ronan’s direction. He wasn’t doing anything besides scrolling through his phone and running a thoughtful thumb across the scar on his lip.

A few of the maid’s dress buttons were undone, giving a generous glance down her bodice whenever she bent over. And she bent over a lot. I wanted to tell her to have a little self-respect, but I wasn’t sure it would resonate coming from a girl who would have probably had unprotected sex with Ronan on the first date if he’d asked.

I thought he was so busy reporting posts on Instagram he didn’t notice her painfully obvious interest—that is, until his eyes lifted from his phone, caught mine, and flickered with devious amusement.

Ugh.

“Mogu ya predlozhit’ vam chto-nibud’ yeshche?” the maid asked Ronan in a sultry voice. I didn’t need to know Russian to understand she’d just questioned if she could “tempt” him with anything else.

I hated blondes.

With Ronan’s eyes on mine, it couldn’t be clearer he was enjoying every second of this before saying, “Nyet.”

The maid followed his stare to me and finally recognized someone other than Ronan was in the room. She reduced me down to one fell swoop of her eyes. Evidently, my unmanageable hair and floral embroidered shorts romper didn’t exactly scream competition. I bristled at her perusal, but she was already carrying her tray out of the room, casting Ronan a longing glance on the way.

I usually had high respect for blue-collar workers, but that one . . . What a peasant.

“What happened to the other girl?” I asked.

Ronan gave me a look that said it was none of my business. At the thought the quiet servant could have had something to do with poisoning me, my stomach tightened. Ronan killing murderous mobsters was one thing; a meek servant girl, another.

“You didn’t . . . do anything to her, did you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Nyet.”

I guessed that word was all he was going to say this morning. He was becoming worse company than Khaos. The German shepherd growled at me every time I spoke to him and avoided my presence like I was the one who had fleas. I should stop disrupting the animal’s peace, but something behind his tough demeanor felt so lonely it pulled at my own outcast heartstrings. I refused to give up on him.

Even though Albert told me the kitchen was monitored closely now and that my food wouldn’t be salted with poison again, I was still hesitant to eat anything and had survived on Yulia’s crumbs for the past two days. The hesitance was due to the fact Ronan didn’t say a word to reassure me. Considering all his demands I should eat since we met, his silence now made me feel like he didn’t care. Maybe I was being dramatic, but since I’d already started down the path, I was going to own it until the end.

I put on a show of meticulously smearing a piece of toast with the vegan butter Polina made for me, though I couldn’t help but believe Ronan noticed the only thing I was truly ingesting was water. He had nothing to say about it.

As he sipped his tea, the silence sent an uneasy energy through me. I wanted him to say something, anything, to disperse the tension in the room—another “nyet,” a demeaning “pet,” or even a crass comment.