The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

I didn’t know if he wanted to smile or kill me. “The last man who tested me the way you do is floating in the Moskva in seven different pieces.”

A bite of cereal caught in my throat, but I refused to cough or look away. Even having seen Ronan murder, I sometimes forgot the type of man he was. Maybe my view was distorted by the side effects of captivity, or by his smile, laugh, and handsome face. Although, deep down, I knew it wasn’t those things.

I forced the cereal down my throat and plopped another in my mouth. “I guess I’m narcissistic I’m not a man then.”

“You being a woman has nothing to do with it.”

The childhood memory of my papa’s girlfriend resurfaced, and I pulled my gaze from him, chest suddenly tight. “I don’t want special treatment.” I don’t deserve it. “You should treat me like anyone else who happens to look at you the wrong way.”

“I find your sacrificial lamb mentality nauseating.”

“I’m sure selflessness is hard for you to stomach,” I said in understanding.

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

“Charismatic gangster who’s an introvert at heart? Sexual deviant? A villain with a sad past I refuse to sympathize with? Check, check, check. If you were a subject on my SATs, I’d ace it.”

A hint of a laugh passed through his eyes. “I have no idea where you come up with this shit.”

What I would never tell him was, I’d always been a bit of an introvert too.

“Where I come from, you either sink or swim. I swam.” His voice pulled me into his web, demon-spun, and as strong as his knots. “Can’t say the same, can you?”

The cereal in my stomach soured. I hated how he could pick apart my flaws, my secrets, and then practically throw them in my face. I focused on my cup of tea and took a sip. Scrunching my nose at the bitter taste, I added some sugar.

“Did you enjoy your day of freedom?” he asked.

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘freedom.’”

“Maybe, but mine is the only one that matters, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know why he had to wind me up until it felt as if I would pop like a jack-in-the-box. Maybe so I’d “misbehave,” and then he’d have a reason to punish me and sate his sadistic soul.

“You can continue to have free rein of my home, but don’t engage my men.” A threat tainted his voice.

Stirring my tea, I offered him a saccharine smile. “Why? Because I’m a lowly Mikhailov who shouldn’t deign to speak?”

“Your words, not mine.”

The whimsical, mocking tune of my childhood toy played in my head as Ronan cranked the lever—not only from the degrading nuance in his voice, but because I forgot what a bastard the man was just yesterday, and I couldn’t have humiliated myself more.

“If you despise me so much just because of who my papa is, then I feel sorry for you.”

He gave a dry, amused look. “Coming from someone who spread her legs for her papa’s enemy two seconds after meeting him. Perhaps the one who should be pitied here is you.”

“That’s your opinion. And it sucks.” So did this tea. The bitterness left a thick aftertaste on my tongue.

A volatile energy condensed the room and slowed the beat of my heart. I said I wasn’t perfect, and I was beginning to learn I had a fiery temper and more pride than sense.

“I hope using me to fulfill your twisted desire for revenge doesn’t weigh too heavily on your pin-size conscience.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re concerned for my welfare, but just to clear the air . . .” His eyes darkened. “I’ve enjoyed every second of it.”

Loathing burned a hole through my stomach as “Pop Goes the Weasel” grew louder and louder in my ears. Then, something vengeful, almost sensual, arose to trace the edges of my voice.

“I think you’re enjoying it more than you’d like.”

He went still, and then his gaze slowly lifted to examine me like I was toxic. Somehow, the bitter tea went down smoothly beneath the force of his stare.