“That doesn’t mean he hasn’t hurt others.”

A bitter breath passed his lips. “Are you taking D’yavol’s side?”

“I’m not taking sides. I find you all a bit despicable.” The dry humor was supposed to lighten the mood, but Ivan didn’t find it funny. Unable to handle the grave tension rolling off him, I announced, “Maybe I could find a key to your cell.” I wondered if Ronan had a doggy guard around here with the key in its mouth like in Pirates of the Caribbean.

“I would ask if he has touched you, but I already know the answer. Out of all the men in Moscow, you had to go and fuck him?”

His words chafed me raw. Had he watched the video? The thought made me sick, so in an effort to hold down the nausea, I ignored the statement. “Maybe with the right leverage, we can pop this door right off.” I glanced around in an attempt to find something useful.

“How could you not see through him, Mila? I thought you were smarter than that.”

A girl could only be called an idiot so many times. I halted my search as heat ran up my neck.

“You know what? Maybe I wouldn’t have been so stupid if you and Papa didn’t shelter me my entire life.” Sarcasm took over. “I’m sure college has a course called ‘How to Not Fuck Mobsters.’ If only I was allowed to attend . . .”

“This is not a joke.”

“I’m not laughing. I might have made a mistake, but so did you and my papa by not telling me the truth. If someone hadn’t killed that boy, none of this would be happening.”

“You are just going to believe everything D’yavol tells you?”

“My only other option is to believe someone who’s lied to me for years. The pickings are looking a little slim. Is there a third party nearby I can ask?”

“There is no need for a third party. You should stand with your papa. With me.” He practically seethed.

The thing was, I wanted to be loyal. I wanted an easy route to take; to believe my papa was the lesser of two evils. But now, all I could see when I thought of my father was a mutilated boy and a woman bleeding out on our library floor. When I closed my eyes and thought of the other evil . . . my stance was too conflicted to comprehend.

Ivan must have seen the uncertainty behind my eyes, and it angered him. His jaw tightened. He stepped toward me, flicking a glance behind me, to a high point in the room. When his gaze slid back to mine, something underhanded, almost devious, flickered within. It was the first time I’d seen that kind of darkness in him, and the sight raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“Be honest with me. He has not hurt you?”

I didn’t understand where this was going, but my stomach tilted with the feeling I wouldn’t like the end result.

Uneasily, I shook my head.

“And he will not?” He moved closer—as close as the bars would allow. My hands grew clammy; my heart beat fast. It felt like Ronan was standing behind me and that I was sandwiched between two men on a battlefield who had every intention of killing each other. I didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire, but I realized then, I already had.

“Ivan . . . I—”

“Answer the question.”

The indecision tore me in half. My gut told me Ronan wouldn’t hurt me physically, but it also braced for a flood that would wash me away. I didn’t want to leave Ivan to worry about me, so even though I didn’t wholly believe it, I whispered, “No.”

Ivan ran a thumb across my cheek. The suggestion in the touch expanded unease in my stomach, the caress not evoking a sliver of the heat certain inked fingers did. Why couldn’t this burn? Why couldn’t I want this?

“If I am going to die,” he said with a dark form of amusement, “I may as well go out with a bang.”

I didn’t have time to process the statement before he grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my lips to his between the bars. Shock kept my mouth uncompromising for a second, but beneath his encouraging pressure, my lips softened and complied.

His tongue slid into my mouth, and I met it with my own, praying for the heat, the ache, the desperation I should feel—needed to feel. Warmth spread in my stomach, convincing me to kiss him harder and skim my hands over his shoulders and into his hair. He groaned and grasped my waist, pulling me against the cool bars.

Ivan’s fingers exuded warmth as they traveled down my body to my ass, but the contact didn’t ignite. The embrace was an ember in a breeze, unable to go up in flames without gasoline.

He tilted my head with the other hand to deepen the kiss, and I tasted a familiar hint of cinnamon. They chewed the same type of gum. They had history. The animosity between them was personal. I wondered how well they knew each other; if they’d shared each other’s secrets on the streets of Moscow or in a cell much like this one.

When he pulled away, my breath was soft and stable, the pressure of his mouth fading to nothing but memory. Loyalty told me this was where I belonged—in the embrace of a man I’d shared so much with—but my soul begged for something else; for a fire that lit without fuel; for Versace, tanzanite, and hands that stole my breath. My body was underwhelmed, though inside, everything was crashing down.

If I could long for the devil, it meant I had some darkness in me too.

oenomel

(n.) something combining strength with sweetness

I should be questioning my life choices, searching for a key to Ivan’s cell, or doing anything remotely constructive. Instead, I sat in the drawing room and watched the sun sink below the horizon with the Bible on my lap. The book was in Russian and was therefore incomprehensible, but the words didn’t matter. It was the divine support I needed—similar to a crucifix or a garlic necklace.

Je hais Madame Richie. Tu hais Madame Richie. Nous haïssons Madame Richie. I was beginning to hate the fortune-teller more each day. I put all the blame on her for setting something in motion I couldn’t stop. I would take credit for my stupidity, but she needed to fess up to the spell she’d put on me to enjoy asphyxiation and the touch of darkness. Lack of college education notwithstanding, I knew nobody in their right mind longed for less oxygen.

The front door shut quietly, but it may as well have been slammed, the soft click sending an edgy vibration to the tips of my fingers. It couldn’t be any clearer who just came inside if a marching band preceded him. The energy he carried in rivaled the insidious screech in horror films as a glinting knife stabbed at its victim.

Ronan must have had a bad day at work.

Stomach clenching, I picked up the book, opened it to a random page, and pretended to devoutly read. My back was to the doorway, but I didn’t need to see it to know he’d silently entered the room. His presence settled over me like a blanket of slithering vipers: black, smooth, and threatening to bite.

I wondered if Moscow ran out of virgins to steal. I didn’t count given I was already stolen. And a slut at heart.

Jokes aside, I was a little concerned for my welfare at this point.

I felt Ronan move to the couch opposite me and take a seat. It was a battle to keep my gaze on the illegible Cyrillic letters, but I wasn’t prepared to acknowledge him yet. Disregarding the humiliation of this morning that raised a shameful flush to my skin, the suffocating tension he emanated was about as comfortable as jumping into a fire.