The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“Tell me why, and I will.”

She scowled and waved a dismissive hand. “He is just lackey. Not the one Master wants.”

My eyes narrowed. “The real reason.”

She returned the glare for a beat, but seeing I wasn’t leaving without getting what I wanted, she said like she was pulling teeth, “They will not kill him even though he is worthless traitor. They shared time in prison.” Then she frowned thoughtfully. “They probably tortured him some though.”

I swallowed, hoping Ivan still had all his fingers and toes, but a weight lifted off my shoulders at the fact he was alive. I didn’t understand why they captured him if they were just going to let him go. Not to mention, when I spoke to Ivan, he believed Ronan would kill him. I had the feeling something had changed between yesterday and this morning, and my mind could only settle on what happened in the drawing room after sunset.

Questions—so many questions—stirred. I could demand answers, though I thought I had already pushed Yulia too far by the look she gave me while stabbing her needle in the pincushion like it was a voodoo doll.

Gingerly, I set Lada back on the shelf and turned to the door. “Thank you, Yulia.”

“Come to my room again, you will have bad luck for seven years!”

“Grouch,” I muttered on my way out, only to hear a significant insult in return.

“Harlot.”

Ugh.

I was relieved to see the dining room sat empty except for a single filled plate in my spot at the table. After grabbing the dish, I slipped on my boots and coat and stepped outside. The men no longer went silent in my presence, now used to me traipsing around in the snow. Pavel even came over to greet me, following my steps to the kennel while trying out some of the English he was attempting to learn. It was awful, but I’d never tell him.

Albert barked something at Pavel, who gave me an apologetic smile. “I leave now. Boss teach me how . . .” As he scratched his head in thought, a weird sense of anticipation ballooned in my stomach at just the mention of Ronan, knowing he was the only one referred to as “boss” around here. Unable to come up with the word, Pavel moved his hands like they were on a steering wheel.

“Drive?” I supplied.

“Yes. He tell me I

suck ass.”

A laugh escaped me. Pavel should probably stick to letting Ronan teach him to drive and not English.

“Well, you’d better go learn then.”

He blushed, dipped his head, and started toward the car.

When I reached the kennel, I smiled at Misha, who excitedly paced the fence. A giant of a German shepherd with solid black fur, he looked menacing, but he always greeted me, tail wagging.

Albert had told me all of the dogs’ names as well as to not feed them human food because it would make them fat and lazy. I’d forgiven the giant for his part in my abduction, but I also thought he could toss his demands in the trash along with his cigarette butts.

Kneeling in the snow in my fur coat, I passed out the breakfast on my plate and joked, “You’re all going to be vegans in no time.”

Xander dropped a strawberry with a well-timed look of disgust.

“Okay, maybe not,” I laughed.

Eighteen days had passed since my vacation in Moscow took a twisted turn. Only two and a half weeks, but it felt like forever. It was a little sad to say I’d miss some of the dogs here more than the superficial friendships I’d gained from over twenty years in Miami.

Khaos wasn’t lazing in the corner like a lion this morning, which told me he was inside the kennel, most likely making an effort to avoid me. I saved the best piece of food for him even though he always turned down my offerings as if they were peasant fare.

The snow started to soak through my coat, but the chill was better than tiptoeing around the house to avoid Ronan. Though, just as the thought hit, so did an electric tingle that slid down my back, wilting my heartbeat to slow little thumps.

I turned my head to see Ronan step out the front door wearing Brioni sans jacket, with a handgun in his waistband. My throat grew thick. I wondered if the pistol was the one he would use to shoot my papa in the head. I had nothing else to barter to save my father; nothing I hadn’t already offered only to be turned down.

Ronan’s dark gaze met mine, warm like the sun and as cold as an icy whip of wind. The look reminded me of discarded Bibles, restrained wrists, and naked skin. My breath slowed, each frozen puff of air more difficult to push out. The eye contact began to sear; to search the dark corners in my chest, slip through the cracks, and spread outward. Unable to find my breath or control the fire running rampant, I was the first to look away.

I gripped the cold chain-link fence, vaguely noticing Misha’s nose nudging my fingers as Ronan’s presence prickled my back. It was a frustrating development that my body lit up like a firework display when the man was near, pushing aside all qualms he would murder my papa in cold blood. I needed therapy. Or church. Anything to exorcise the demons that raged in eagerness at the sound of his voice. He wasn’t even speaking to me, but the Russian brought back the rough words he said to me last night with his head between my thighs.