The high emotions dropped, leaving me drained and unsteady. When I swayed, he put the gun back in his waistband, wrapped an arm around my waist, and lifted me. The man could shoot an old woman’s pet Fluffy without remorse, and still, I felt comfort in his arms.

A shiver coasted through me, my chilled body absorbing the heat of his. “I’ll hate you forever if you hurt him,” I said numbly.

“Your dramatics are a bit much for a Tuesday morning.”

His words made me uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on us. As a little embarrassment arose, I turned my face into Ronan’s neck and murmured, “It was a great monologue.”

“Oscar-worthy,” he returned with a trace of dry humor. “The near-fainting really brought it home.”

When we entered the house, he spoke in Russian to Yulia on the way to the dining room, where he set me on my feet.

He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

Knowing what he was asking for, I brought my wrist to my chest protectively. “It’s really not that bad.”

“Then let me fucking see it.”

I sighed and complied. Ronan’s eyes on the wound made it throb, and I bit my lip to hide a wince before saying, “I don’t suppose you have a Band-Aid around here?”

Ronan’s dark gaze met mine for a second with a sense of aggravation. “You need stitches.”

My stomach turned at the thought. I was already a strong breeze away from fainting; the pain of a needle sewing my skin back together would surely tip the scales.

“I want a second opinion,” I told him as if I’d just gotten bad news from a doctor.

He gave me a dry look, and when Yulia entered the room with a first-aid kit in hand, Ronan said something to her in Russian. She didn’t even glance at my wrist before announcing, “You need stitches, devushka.”

I glared at Ronan.

“Sit,” he demanded.

I plopped down in my chair.

Polina was next to join the party. She cast a curious glance at my wrist as if it was the most interesting thing to happen that morning. I didn’t see the cook often, but her Russian shouts after a loud clang of pots and pans were a daily occurrence.

When she set a filled plate in front of me, my stomach growled loudly. I was starving, though I was also made with two heaping cups of stubbornness. I thanked Polina but didn’t touch the food.

With a noise of frustration, Ronan grabbed my face and turned it to his. “You’re going to eat every goddamn crumb on that plate.”

I met his eyes. “I will if you promise you won’t do anything to Khaos.”

“I don’t have to promise you anything.”

Something told me he didn’t hand out promises often, and if I got one from him, he would uphold it.

“You don’t have to,” I said softly. “I’m asking you to.”

A long second passed, a muscle in his jaw ticking in thought. He was so close his eyes glimmered dark blue. I’d always thought he was insanely handsome, but now, the sight hit me like a blow to the chest, spreading warmth outward. Just the commanding pressure of his hand on my face dragged a hot net through my blood, sliding lower to the soreness between my legs. My lips parted, and his gaze dropped to my mouth before lifting back to my eyes.

“Your food strike is over,” he said harshly and waited for me to agree.

I nodded, my chest growing lighter with the realization he was compromising with me. His thumb brushed my cheek, and my body ached for him to draw the caress to my lips, which tingled in awareness.

“You’ll let Yulia stitch you up without a single complaint,” he continued.

Breathlessly, I nodded.

“And if I find out you’ve been anywhere near Khaos again”—his grip tightened—“not even a river of your tears will save him. Do you understand me?”

I pulled my lip between my teeth, liking that condition the least. Though keeping my distance from Khaos was better than the alternative. When I nodded, his hand slipped from my face, leaving a hot impression behind. I wanted a verbal promise, but the subtle look in his eyes seemed to be more than enough.

I just compromised with D’yavol.

My heart clenched with all kinds of naïve assumptions: Maybe this promise would open up another; maybe deep beneath Ronan’s hard shell, lay a wonderland made of chocolate; maybe I’d found his saving grace.

Though my hopeful musings nose-dived when he left with a parting word.

“Don’t ever fucking disobey me in front of my men again.”

kilig

(n.) the feeling of butterflies in one’s stomach

Inked fingers slid down my legs, and the roughness of his hands left goose bumps in their wake. My breath caught when he pushed my thighs apart. My skin was so sensitive, the lightest touch hummed below the surface. His mouth trailed down my neck, sucking and biting a path to my breasts. An emptiness pulsed in my core, begging for pressure and friction—

A thump snuffed out the flame inside of me like a candle.

My eyes shot open to see the noise was due to the book falling off my lap. I exhaled a ragged breath and, with a sense of disgust at the immoral daydream that sucked me under, I got up from the window seat to pace my room.

It was after eleven, but I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, a restlessness played beneath my skin, stretching my body thin. The pull of the moon was working its magic on my newly defiled state. I wished that was all it was, but my fantasies had nothing to do with carnal rituals and lesbian trysts in the woods.

I could still feel him all over me: my mouth, my neck, my mind. The persistent ache between my thighs. At the thought, my heartbeat slid to my core, my nipples hardening beneath my tank top.

I was losing my mind.

With rising frustration, I grabbed my book and padded down the hall. The house sat still and dark without Ronan’s presence. He left for Moscow shortly after Yulia finished stitching my wrist and hadn’t returned. I wondered if he was dining on Nadia at the moment; if he was fucking her how she needed it. The thought soured in my stomach, so I pushed it away.

I headed down the stairs, which gave a quiet creak under my weight. Moonlight cast the library in rays of silver that sparkled with particles of dust. I stretched to my toes to put The Grapes of Wrath back in its rightful place. And then the familiar smell of cigar smoke—spice and eucalyptus—filled my senses.

“Kotyonok.”

The book slipped from my fingers, and I spun around, my heartbeat shaking. Ronan sat behind his desk, a formidable shadow below a white cloud of smoke.

I put a hand on my chest. “God, you scared me.” It was at that moment I realized I no longer feared his presence and that the monster I once dreaded was now the one I was relieved to run into in the dark.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me,” he drawled, his dark gaze running down my bare thighs with a tingling glide of heat. “But we both know your efforts are more forward—and, shall we say, awkward—than that.”

He looked and sounded like a gentleman, but as he exhaled an indifferent breath of smoke, tendrils curled like horns above his head.

He was talking about the first time I kissed him—how I almost missed his mouth completely. The annoying comment should stamp down all lust inside, but it didn’t.