The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

My brow furrowed. “Do you share a telepathic connection with your housekeeper?”

He smiled as his phone buzzed on his nightstand. “Fortunately for her, only a technological one.”

I didn’t even notice he’d texted her. Though it wasn’t that surprising; the sight of him lying there naked was distracting. So many inches of pure man. He was perfectly flawed—from the scars to the crude tattoos—his body forged in bone and muscle and fire. I wanted to trace every line of ink on his skin with my tongue. Another desire rose and burned in my chest with a desperate emotion: I wanted to call him mine.

I straddled his hips and braced my hands on either side of his head, my breath thick. “Sometimes, I’m convinced you’re immortal.”

A smile played on his lips. “Just diabolical.”

Absently, I touched the sharp point of his incisor. It was a dangerous game putting my finger anywhere near D’yavol’s mouth, but he only gently closed his teeth on my thumb. I pulled it free, drew it across the scar on his lip, and was compelled to softly say, “So much more than that . . .”

My chest felt so heavy and light all at once. Then the thick silence was interrupted by a knock on the door. Naked as the day I was born, I cast a gaze to the sound just as Ronan said, “Come in.”

With a panicked noise, I scrambled off the bed and ran to the bathroom at lightspeed, Ronan’s soft chuckle following me. He wouldn’t think it was so funny if Yulia caught me in here fornicating with the master, killed me by sticking a pin in the heart of a voodoo doll, and destroyed his best chance at revenge.

I slammed the bathroom door shut behind me and rested my back against it. I had no idea what I was doing with Ronan, but I did know something about it felt right.

Of course, my mind reminded me of the many reasons I shouldn’t fool around with D’yavol, including but not limited to:

?He abducted me.

?He planned to murder my papa in cold blood.

?He threw me out to sleep with the dogs just last night.

My conscience was raining on my parade.

Feeling so conflicted it ate at me, I dragged myself to the shower, turned the faucet on hot, and stepped under the spray. As the water rained down on me, I thought of so much but seemingly nothing at all. If anything, after this experience, I knew with a certainty I would never marry Carter. A passionless marriage wasn’t in my future, and with that knowledge, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. But it didn’t diminish other heavy truths.

Even considering my papa’s lies, his criminal character, and his absences, I still found it impossible to imagine a life without him. He was my family, my father, the person I’d always looked to for the answers. And when he turned himself in for me, he would no longer exist. The thought constricted my chest so tightly I was sure I’d bruise.

Selfishly, I was just as terrified of being alone. I didn’t know how Ivan felt about me anymore, and I knew I couldn’t ask him to stay by my side just because I was scared of being truly, awfully alone . . . Madame Richie’s cigarette smoke and laughter swirled behind my closed eyes, clouding my mind with the smell of cloves and ruin. I wasn’t sure if it was the shower water or tears running down my face when an arm wrapped around my waist. I swayed into the contact, not resisting as Ronan pulled me back against his chest.

Disaster loomed in the distance, but the heat of his body washed away the coldness inside me. I used to despise his size and strength; now I leaned into it knowing he wouldn’t let me fall. Yet.

Ronan pressed his face against my neck with a low groan. “Inogda bol’no smotret’ na tebya.”

He wasn’t going to translate the statement for me, but he didn’t need to. I understood what he said. Sometimes it hurts to look at you. And now I knew it wasn’t only water running down my cheeks.

All along, this man had been on the other side of the Atlantic.

And maybe . . . just maybe, my soul always knew.

nefelibata

(n.) one who lives in the clouds of their own imagination

The sun shined, casting a bright sheen behind my closed eyes, and rolled me in the soft warmth of heaven. Though the soreness between my thighs was the embodiment of Satan’s harem itself.

I opened my eyes to find myself alone in D’yavol’s bed. I stared at the ceiling while the memory of yesterday returned with a vengeance.

I didn’t think Ronan noticed my mini-meltdown in the shower—or maybe he did, and that was why he took the initiative to wash me himself. My hair, my body . . . but not my conscience.

My mind worked backward, the memory hitting rewind from the moment I came, my head thrown back, beneath the spray of the shower. Each thrust had slid me up the shower wall, my thighs wrapped around his hips. Heavy breaths and Russian words. Stars on his shoulders. Stars in my eyes.

I’d dropped to my feet, spun around, and rose to my tiptoes. He slid inside me from behind. My forehead rolled against the wall, my fingers sliding down the stone. His hand on my throat; his lips at my ear. “Moya. Vse moya.” Mine. All mine. Inked fingers braced on the wall beside my own. Suds and skin and a raven called Nevermore. My chest held a brittle paper heart knowing, soon, this man would slip through my fingers like another lost Lenore . . .

I returned to the present, my arms spread on black sheets like a snow angel’s, before I was again sucked back to yesterday.