The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

Everything came back to me.

The scarred man.

The near rape.

All I could think at that moment was, so far, Moscow really sucked.

The dark-haired Russian held my stare with a distant look of interest. I swallowed and pulled my gaze away when the doctor placed his chair next to me and sat. I eyed the briefcase beside him warily, knowing if he pulled a needle from it, I’d take my chances out on the street.

Getting a closer look, the doctor paused and tilted his head. “Ty vyglyadish’ znakomo. My ran’she ne vstrechalis’?”

Sludge stuck to my thoughts like gum. He spoke too fast for me to understand any of it.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, scrutinizing me. “Mozhesh’ skazat’ svoye imya, dorogoya?”

I

thought I heard “imya.” Was he asking for my name? I wasn’t sure, so I only blinked.

He frowned in concern. “Ty dolzhen byl otvezti yeye v bol’nitsu.”

I only recognized “bol’nitsu.” The hospital. However, I realized his words weren’t meant for me but for the only other man in the room. The one built like a brick wall, as uncomfortable as it had been to run into him.

At first glance, he looked like a gentleman, like he belonged in a CEO’s boardroom, looking down at the world through floor-to-ceiling glass. Though, if one stared longer than they should, everything about him—the way he leaned against the desk, arms crossed; the way shadows fought in his eyes; how black ink decorated his fingers—opposed it. A powerful, maybe even dangerous edge lay in the relaxed set of his shoulders.

He was war embodied, tailored in an expensive black suit, sans tie and jacket. I knew his was the one I wore now.

As if he could feel me staring, the man caught my gaze. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. Like Russian roulette. A revolver and one bullet. A single wrong blink, and I’d be dead. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as half a bottle of UV Blue and the Miami sun.

“Poprobuy po-angliyski,” he said, his eyes on mine. Try English.

The doctor’s brow lowered. “My English is no good.”

The other man pushed off the desk and came closer, dropping to his haunches in front of me. His dress pants kissed my preppy plaid ones. His black cap toe boots contrasted my white Rothy’s.

He was cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something so alive played in his eyes. Eyes I could now see weren’t black, as I originally presumed, but a very, very dark blue. Darker than the heart-shaped stones in my ears.

I didn’t know if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of hitting my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re really uncomfortable to run into.” I said it so seriously, like it was something he should be concerned about.

“My apologies.” A Russian accent and amusement touched his voice.

I stared at his lips, at the thin scar on the bottom one and the two rough words pouring out of them like vodka over ice. I wondered how he got the scar. I wondered if his voice tasted like vodka too; if it would burn my throat and warm my stomach. I felt . . . weird. My thoughts seemed to have no filter, ping-ponging against my skull like a game of pinball.

I opened my mouth to explain myself, but all that came out was, “You’re very Russian.”

He drew a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip. “You’re very American.”

The doctor shifted in his chair and spoke, but I barely heard it over this man’s presence that was so very loud. He was an eclipse, blocking the pain from my head, and, probably, the sun. Though overwhelming, it wasn’t unpleasant. It was warm. Persuasive. Worldly. A royal flush in a den of iniquity.

“Do you know your name?” he translated.

Slowly, I nodded. “Mila . . . Mila Mikhailova.”

The doctor shot a censorious look at the man in front of me, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care because his gaze remained on mine, pulling curiosity to the surface.

“What’s yours?” I asked on a shallow breath.

He smiled. “Ronan.”