The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“I know you poisoned me,” I said simply and grabbed another towel.

She dropped one of Ronan’s undershirts, her terror-filled eyes shooting to me.

I didn’t know what compelled her to serve me a cup of cyanide, but I did have the gut instinct it was one of those gray moments in life that couldn’t be categorized.

“I forgive you, you know? But please don’t do it again. It really sucked.”

I didn’t know how much English she understood, though I believed she got the gist by the feel of her incredulous gaze on me for a long moment while I worked my way through the bath towels.

“I am sorry,” she finally said softly, tears running down her cheeks. “I promise, I vill not do again.”

Her thick accent was endearing, and a warm smile touched my lips. “Now that’s out of the way, how does Ronan like his underwear folded?”

Glossy eyes slid to the boxer briefs in my hand, and the smallest hint of humor arose, which I imagined she hadn’t felt in a long time. Then she grabbed another pair of underwear and showed me how to correctly fold them. The simple moment filled another hole in my heart I didn’t know was there.

fudgel

(n.) pretending to work while actually doing nothing

Albert held the banker by his collar and punched him in the face. Blood and spittle flew through the air. Leaning back in my desk chair, my eyes caught and narrowed on a blonde hair on my shirt sleeve. My first instinct was to pluck the strand off as if it carried a flesh-eating strain of bacteria. The hair was yellow. And these days, the color made my chest feel ridiculously tight.

The sensation was karma.

I knew it would catch up with me. And here it was, making me feel awkward as fuck with a single strand of Mila’s hair. She clung to me when she wasn’t even present. Her summery smell, the feel of her legs wrapped around me, the sound of her laugh . . . All of it had burrowed beneath my skin deeper than claws.

Albert’s fist flew. The banker’s jawbone cracked, and a tooth skidded across my desk.

Karma could have given me something easier to deal with—like an impending atom bomb or a nuclear disaster. But no, the comeuppance karma had dealt me was feelings. What a cunt.

Albert kicked the prone man in his ribs. He tried to block the blows with his arms. Bad decision. A boot connected with his head, though I vaguely paid attention, my mind still stuck in fluffy, Mila-induced clouds.

I’d been inside her enough times to memorize every inch of her body. My curiosity on that front should be satisfied. Though satisfaction was the feeling of a job well done; not the driving need to do it again and again until I died.

Sergey’s pained groans filled the room as I stared at the strand of hair on my sleeve, relishing the fact it was there and hating it all the same.

I’d like to think my interest in Mila was just about her body, but I’d never talked to a woman as much as I did her without experiencing the pull of suicidal boredom. And yet I was the one striking up conversation even while balls-deep inside of her just to hear what that mouth of hers had to say. The truth was . . . Mila could have braces and leprosy, and I’d still want to fuck her six ways to Sunday.

I ran a thumb across my lip, coming to terms with the uncomfortable realization while Albert grabbed Sergey by the hair and threw him into the wall. The side table splintered, breaking beneath the banker’s hefty weight.

Less than forty-eight hours. That was how long I had left before making the trade with Alexei. He was the one with a death sentence, but somehow, it felt like I was getting fucked over. The passing minutes mocked me, settling beneath my skin with an edgy feeling I couldn’t shake.

Alexei’s head no longer seemed an adequate trade for Mila. She was worth millions more . . . and the stolen Eiffel Tower. As a tension tightened my body, searing my chest, I pondered asking for exactly that.

It would give me more time. More time to get Mila out of my blood. Though if things continued the way they were, she’d only work her way in deeper. Not to mention, this meeting told me the one thing I didn’t have on my side right now was time.

Albert wiped the wall clean with Sergey’s face. Picture frames fell, and glass shattered on the floor. Any other day, I would have something to say about Albert destroying my office, but all I could focus on was this token of Mila’s she’d left behind and how, soon, it would be all I’d find of her.

It felt like a hot iron was wedged in my ribs at the thought of pushing her into Alexei’s men’s arms. The idea of Ivan being one of them made me grind my teeth. Apparently, jealousy was imagining smashing the other man’s head into a wall. Five times. A sinister feeling spread through me, telling me she was mine—every yellow, sickly-sweet, hearts-in-her-eyes inch of her.

Albert slammed Sergey’s face into the desktop, and blood splattered on my inked hands. The same ones that would separate Mila’s papa’s head from his neck.

She gave me her forgiveness.

I had nothing to give her but vengeance.

I brushed the hair off my sleeve and let it fall to the dirty carpet.

“I met with him!” Sergey finally gasped in Russian, hunched against the wall from the latest punch to the stomach. There was so much padding there, I was surprised he felt the blow.