When I entered the kennel and saw Mila lying beside Misha, shivering, it felt like a knife to the chest. Without a word, I lifted her in my arms and started back to the house.

Her skin was like ice against mine, but I barely felt it over the blood pounding in my veins. Knowing confusion was a sign of hypothermia, I said, “Talk to me, Mila. What day is it?”

She trembled against me. “English.”

Relief flooded me at the fact she was still coherent.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in my neck. “I swear I didn’t mean to do it.”

Her words were a punch to the gut—especially because I believed her. I knew it before I even dragged her outside. Truthfully, I couldn’t blame her if she meant to pull the trigger; I hadn’t exactly taken her on a vacation. The fact I’d reacted so irrationally and she was the one apologizing to me made me feel like my hands were too dirty to even touch her.

I didn’t know how to handle all the pressure in my chest, so I repeated in English, “What day is it?”

“I don’t know. I’m being held captive without a phone or calendar.”

“I’ll get you a calendar,” I promised.

I carried her inside and passed Yulia in the entryway. Her cool gaze flickered with a little concern when she looked at the girl in my arms. Mila was even winning over my unfeeling housekeeper.

I set Mila on her feet in my room. I didn’t think she was hypothermic—at least not critically—but I still had to get her warm. As I pulled her tank top up, she silently lifted her arms for me. I dropped to my haunches and slid her shorts down her thighs. She braced a hand on my shoulder and lifted each leg so I could remove the fabric. A shiver wracked her, and the pressure in my throat expanded, compelling me to skim a kiss across her cold thigh and roughly say, “Izvini.” I’m sorry.

I remembered the last time I’d said that. I was six and accidentally knocked over a cup of tea on the table, which washed away the line of heroin my mother was about to snort. She backhanded me so hard I hit my head on the fridge and blacked out. It was then I learned apologies were nothing but useless words, though Mila felt differently. And she could have whatever she wanted from me right now.

The subtle look in her eyes made me feel like she saw the memory in my head before she ran a hand into my hair and urged me to stand. I tugged her onto the bed with me, where I pulled her bare chest to mine, pressing as many inches of her icy skin against my own, and covered us with the covers.

She sighed in relief at the warmth. “You know I didn’t mean to do it, don’t you?”

I knew. That was the problem. The knowledge had forced me to apologize and feel all sorts of awkward things.

I’d wanted her body.

But now, I wanted her loyalty even more.

“I know, kotyonok. Now, go to sleep.”

toska

(n.) a dull ache of the soul

I woke among black sheets and a woodsy scent that consumed every one of my senses. Ronan sat in a chair beside the bed. His eyes were lowered, and his elbows rested on his knees as he twisted my heart-shaped earring between his thumb and forefinger. A single turn of the synthetic diamond symbolized our relationship: He held my heart in the palm of his hand, bringing it out to play sometimes before putting it back in his pocket to be forgotten.

He wasn’t aware I was awake, and I took the opportunity to view his private moment. Still in nothing but his briefs, his hair glinted blue in the sunlight and was mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. He was ink and vengeance and so very human beneath cold, steel armor.

In Moscow, cartoon hearts danced in my eyes when I saw him. Now, in this wintery Russian fortress, the sight of him created a sharp ache in my chest that threatened to rip me in half.

I wondered if Ronan’s conscience was responsible for him changing his mind about leaving me for dead, or simply the fact he’d have to forfeit his collateral. He’d surprised me by apologizing, though he was the one who told me apologies were worthless. Clearly, he couldn’t stomach the thought of being close to me for longer than it took to make sure I didn’t die.

The earring fell from his fingers and sparkled as it bounced off the marble floor before rolling beneath the bed. My heartache disappeared in the dark where childhood monsters lay, leaving a coldness to spread within like spiderwebs of frost.

I covered my bare breasts with the sheet and sat up on the bed. Ronan’s dark gaze lifted to mine. He didn’t look tired, but something told me he was used to sleepless nights.

“Kirill came to see you already,” he said. “You slept through it.”

I found the fact he sent for a doctor slightly interesting—nothing more. Not seeing my clothes anywhere, I wrapped the sheet around me and stood.

“You didn’t need to bother him again but thank you.”

“Thank you,” he repeated drily as if he couldn’t decide whether he was annoyed by the words or simply didn’t understand them.

“Spasibo.” I translated it to Russian for him and padded to the door, the black sheet trailing behind me like a woman in virginal mourning.

“I know what you fucking said,” he grated. “And I didn’t say you could go.”

Obediently, I stopped in the doorway and turned to him, welcoming the numb sensation within. Ronan could move me around like one of Yulia’s dolls right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. My compliance was what he’d wanted all this time, yet by the hard glitter in his eyes, it seemed he still wasn’t happy.

As he stood and strode toward me, I coasted my stare to the corner of the room—mostly because looking at him shook the composure inside. Like a splatter of paint on a white canvas.

“How do you feel?”

“Hungry,” I said simply.

Ronan made an impatient noise, now standing within arm’s reach, and demanded, “Your eyes, Mila.”

I pulled my gaze to his but stared through him. His attention warmed my face, the irritation in the air intensifying with each tick of silence. Then he reached up and ran a thumb across my cheek.

“No tears for me this morning?”

“Do you wish for my tears?” My tone conveyed I would muster up a few if he did.

His jaw tightened. An angry sound rose in his throat, then he pushed my face away and turned his back to me.

“May I go now?”

He shook his head and gritted, “You may,” before slamming the bathroom door behind him.

I bumped into Yulia in my bedroom doorway. She held out a glass of water and two ibuprofen for my wrist. As I plopped the pills in my mouth and swallowed them down with a drink, I thought I saw a flicker of softness in her gaze. Though it disappeared with a purse of her lips and the next words from her mouth.

“If she profanes herself by whoring, she shall be burned with fire.” Then she grabbed the glass from my hand, brushed past me, and headed down the hall, humming.

I was really living the dream here. No doubt Captive Barbie would be in stores next season.

After taking a hot shower, I drifted into the dining room for breakfast. Completely unconcerned with my presence, Kylie’s twin set the table between bouts of texting and delicate giggles. It was only when I poured a cup of tea that she stilled to examine me like bacteria under a microscope.