“Nyet, kotyonok. He’s just seen me much worse than this.”

She swallowed as her eyes slid down my chest, like she was seeing the scars for the first time. Some of the marks were long and thin from contraband blades behind bars. A few of them were round from gunshots—one in my side, one in my back, one now in my arm, and another an inch away from my heart, which was the scar Mila drew her fingers across. The touch made my skin crawl but was warm nonetheless.

“Who?” she asked shakily.

I knew she was asking who shot me—who almost killed me. But something inside me rebelled at telling her the truth. Mila wanted to live in a shiny bubble. A bubble her papa could be redeemed in. A bubble where his character looked a little dark but shiny nonetheless.

She might learn a lot about how he’d done business when he was dead. That he kidnapped girls younger than her and sent them into the sex industry. Her bubble was going to be popped someday, but I couldn’t be the one to do it.

I smiled and lied, “No one you know.”

Her fingers slipped off my chest, leaving a weird sense of absence behind. She stepped back to give room for Kirill to set up a blood bag. I gave him a silent warning to not put any pain-relief drugs in my IV. I hated the way they made me feel. At first, he’d complained, but now, he was used to it and merely nodded.

Mila hovered as if there was something she could do to help. I’d never been the source of someone’s concern before her. I didn’t need it. Here I was, four gunshots in and still alive. Yet Mila was on a roll trying to string some Russian together to ask Kirill about my condition. I suddenly hated her concern. I hated it because I liked it. And the latter wasn’t conducive in any way. Once she was gone, karma would leave me pining for a woman’s love over a bowl of soggy Fruit Loops.

I needed to stop this Hallmark avalanche now.

“We both got off, Mila,” I said harshly. “I’m not sure what you’re waiting around here for.”

She took a step back at my words, her complexion paling. And now I hated myself. What was a little self-loathing added to the mix?

“Okay,” she murmured. “I guess I’ll go then.”

Mila hesitated for a second before turning to leave as if it was the last thing she wanted. I didn’t think it was what I wanted either. She gave me a fleeting glance in the doorway that tightened my chest, and then she was gone.

I wondered if that was the exact scene that would play out in less than two days’ time—a glimpse of her yellow hair and a brief meeting of eyes before a gnawing absence set in.

I fell into bed over two hours later in my bloody pants and boots. Kirill told me the wound would heal fine after shoving some antibiotics in my hand. He was pretty confident the bullet had missed bone, only tearing through muscle. How narcissistic I got once again. I’d normally be enjoying two fingers of vodka and a cigar after this day, though now all I could see was the heartbroken look on Mila’s face.

The need to go to her room tore at me, but I quelled the impulse. I’d already apologized to her once; I didn’t have another in me. Not to mention, it was futile to do so now, thirty hours before I murdered her papa.

I was sure she wouldn’t welcome me anyway, and I’d never begged for a thing in my life—not even as a kid living on the streets. I simply took what I wanted. Unfortunately, Mila wasn’t a handful of rubles or a loaf of bread. She just had to have feelings and some kind of voodoo power over me that wouldn’t let me hurt her—apparently, even emotionally.

I’d never beg.

But this was the first time I’d wanted to.

I fell asleep to the thought of seeing Mila on the streets. I simply picked her up and carried her home to my Russian fortress, where I hand-fed her pomegranate seeds so she’d never be able to leave.

It was slight movement on the mattress that woke me. Again, I knew who it was. The pressure in my chest released when Mila slid into bed beside me and rested an arm on my chest and her head on my shoulder.

My perfect little martyr, lying in her father’s executioner’s arms. I had a job to do, and she was the chess piece needed to win.

The problem was . . . I didn’t think I could ever play her.

quatervois

(n.) a crossroads

I was burning in the flames of hell. It was the only thing that explained the heat consuming me from the inside out. Though hell wasn’t supposed to be so inviting . . . or smell like a Russian forest . . . or fit as well as Armani.

It did contain the faint scent of blood, however.

I blinked against the sun streaming in through the window. The bright morning light was only shadowed by Ronan’s body—which was, of course, the embodiment of hellfire itself.

My face was pressed against his chest, and I was pretty sure some dried priest’s blood had rubbed off on my cheek. That should be the last straw to this messed up tête-à-tête, but somehow, I knew the deceased had been a really shitty priest.

One of my legs was intertwined with Ronan’s as I slowly suffocated beneath his heavy thigh, the deadweight of his arm around me, and all the heat. It was bliss.

I’d always disliked my height, though that was before I realized if I was any shorter, I’d never be able to feel so many inches of this man at once. The closeness hummed in my blood, sating a deep-seated hole inside my heart.

“You feel pretty clingy right now, kotyonok.” The words were rough and tired and so very sexy.

“You’re the one holding me tighter than your favorite stuffed animal,” I returned.

“I don’t have favorites.” A lazy hint of humor touched the words. “They all matter to me.”

My laugh turned into an oomph when a small human jumped on top of me, pushing the air from my lungs.

“Dyadya! Dyadya!” Uncle! Uncle! The little girl bounced on me as if I was a trampoline until Ronan hauled her onto his chest. His blood-smeared chest. The man may be wearing pants while I wore his T-shirt, but this scene was far from PG. She either didn’t notice his wounded arm and all the blood, or she simply didn’t find it important. From what I’d learned of her during our first meeting, I knew it was the latter.

“Moya neposlushnaya plemyannitsa,” Ronan chuckled, tickling the girl’s sides. She giggled, her dark braids bouncing. She wore another band T-shirt as a dress—this one Death—and long socks covered with kittens.

I leaned against the headboard and watched them with a sense of awe. This was another side of Ronan I hadn’t seen, and I had to say, this gray part of him was . . . one I undeniably loved. I realized it last night. With his hands in my hair, the carnal taste of him in my mouth, and his eyes on mine. I’d almost said it then . . . I’d almost let those three words escape, but something had blocked them from coming up my throat.

I loved him.

I couldn’t love him.

So I forced the feeling to stay inside where it belonged and not out in the open where it didn’t.

“Stop!” the girl squealed through tortured laughter while Ronan tickled her feet. He sniffed them and pretended they smelled bad, wrinkling his nose. She could barely breathe from giggling.

I’d never thought much about having children, but seeing uncle and niece interact filled my chest with a warm yearning. Though the feeling faded when I recalled this happy moment would just be a memory someday, and any kids I had would never be Ronan’s.