The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“We both know I could have you any way I want. Unfortunately for you, I have better things to do than Mikhailov whores.”

A pop sounded in my chest, releasing an explosion of fire that turned my vision a hazy red. The slap to his face vibrated in the room and stung my palm, but the sight of his reddened cheek and violent gaze didn’t quell the pounding of blood in my ears.

I was doused in flames, in regret and confusion. He’d taken everything from me—my papa, my mother’s memory, my innocence—and still, I couldn’t even slap him without a tight sensation of remorse and an apology rising in my throat. I hated it. I hated this house. But what I hated the most was what I didn’t hate.

The pull between the feelings wreaked havoc on my body and the dining room. I shot to my feet and swept dishes off the table to the floor, including his stupid bowl of Fruit Loops. Fine china shattered.

He merely watched me smash every breakable item on the table, and when there was nothing else left to throw, my body shook, self-loathing pulsing through me in waves.

“Are you finished?”

My heart slowed to a short bu-bum, bu-bum, and all the blood inside rose to ache in my head. Violence was supposed to be a release, but I didn’t feel so good. Nausea turned my stomach while I tried to catch my breath. A glare from the overhead light singed my eyes, sending a ringing through my ears, and I winced.

“Mila.” Ronan never called me that, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the tightness in my lungs. There wasn’t enough oxygen in here, though when I tried to move to find fresh air, a wave of dizziness took ahold of me, and I grasped the table to steady myself.

Something was wrong with me . . . As a fierce wave of sickness roiled within, an anchor dragged my heart down.

The tea.

Sudden tears ran down my cheeks. My desolate eyes met Ronan’s, and my words reeked of betrayal.

“You poisoned me.”

One of his “fucks” hit my ears before he shot out of his chair and caught me by the waist just as my legs gave out.

With my back to his chest, he shoved two fingers down my throat. I gagged on them, then threw up on his hand and the marble floor. He did it again, and again, until nothing else came up, and I begged him to stop.

Hot sweat permeated my skin, which made me shiver. My limbs were as weak as jelly, and tears saturated my cheeks from the presence of his fingers down my throat. But the knowledge he hadn’t done this to me filled me with a disturbing amount of relief that alleviated the grip on my lungs.

When he lifted me, my eyes opened, and I blinked against the harsh light. Yulia dashed from the room after Ronan growled something at her.

Rainbow-colored vomit stained my sunflower dress and Ronan’s Tom Ford suit. I wondered if this was how I would die, poisoned by black tea in the devil’s arms. I wondered if hell would feel as welcoming; if it had an accent, sharp incisors, and inked hands.

Madame Richie’s laugh resounded in my mind, sending a chill down my spine that disturbed me so much I said between weak pants, “With how much I’ve puked around you, you’d think you would take the hint.”

“Ne govori.” Don’t talk. It was soft but brusque.

He set me on the couch in the drawing room. As weight pulled on my muscles, I moved to lie down, but, on his haunches in front of me, Ronan held me in a sitting position by the back of my neck.

Yulia, whose dry expression conveyed she believed I was being dramatic, handed Ronan a glass of water and a white pill he tried to put in my mouth. I shied away from his hand and shook my head.

“Voz’mi tabletku.”

My head pounded. I didn’t have the energy to try to decipher the rough Russian.

“English, please.”

A fleeting pause in his eyes vanished with something volatile. “Take the fucking pill, Mila.”

He drugged me once before, and I should have learned my lesson. Although, with my puke on his shirt, my name on his lips still lingering in the air, and the closeness of his gaze, I let him put the pill in my mouth before I forced it down my sore throat with a drink of water.

His phone rang, and he stood to answer it. I took the opportunity to lean my head against the armrest and close my eyes to alleviate the ache behind them. A pat to my face made me groan and open them again.

“Ne zasypay,” he told me.

“English,” I reminded him

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