The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“Stop,” I sobbed.

He did.

It took a moment to realize what had caught his attention. He lifted the nautical star necklace from between my breasts and looked almost confused . . . or afraid. Whatever it was, I used his distraction to rake my nails down the scar on his face.

He reared back to cover the wound with a hand, hissing, “Ty malen’kaya suka.” You little bitch.

I scrambled out from beneath him. He seized my ankle, but I kicked back with the other foot, making contact with something that caused him to grunt in pain.

Stumbling to my feet, I fought the dizziness that grabbed at me but couldn’t hold on. My sweaty grasp fumbled with the door handle. It opened, and I slipped inside, colliding face-first with something solid. I hit it—him—so hard, the remaining air in my lungs escaped me on impact. I fell backward, but with a soft Russian curse, the man wrapped an arm around my waist to steady me.

The door had just shut with a thud when a burst of cold air announced it was open again. I spun out of the man’s grasp and moved behind him, expecting to see a scarred face, but it was only a boy wearing a white apron and carrying a crate of liquor.

“Potrebovalos’ vsego tri minuty, kak ya skazal,” he snickered. “Andrei, ty dolzhen mne—” His gaze found me, and he stared, muttering a Russian, “Holy shit.”

Sucking air into my lungs, I stepped back to take in my surroundings.

I’d lost my coat somewhere in the alley outside, and my shirt was ripped open, revealing the lacy white bra beneath. My thoughts were trapped underwater, and I couldn’t find the energy to care what I looked like even with an audience.

Smoke lazed in the room lit by one weak light bulb. Boxes filled shelves, wooden crates littered the floor, and three men sat at a folding table and chairs, all silently staring at me. One of them chewed on a toothpick, while another leaned back in his chair and brought a cigarette to his lips. His suit jacket lay carelessly open, white button-up beneath, no tie.

I coughed on the smoke that twirled in the air.

“Potushi sigaretu.” Put out the cigarette.

The demand came from behind me, from the man I’d run into, his Russian words caressing my back with something equally hot and cold. It was the kind of voice that could pull a girl feet first into the dark.

Leaning forward, the smoker crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. Still trying to catch my breath, I turned around.

I was five-foot-ten with bare feet, but I only stood eye level with the top button of a black dress shirt that stretched across broad shoulders and defined arms.

I looked up.

And just before the dizziness caught me in its grasp and dragged me under, I thought he was handsome.

Handsome in the way rough palms muffle screams, the way people bow to kings, and most of all . . . the way an angel falls from grace.

viridity

(n.) naïve innocence

Russian voices, one concerned, one rough and low, crept into my subconscious. Papa only spoke fluent Russian when he had Russian guests over, but why were they in my room?

It was weird.

And rude.

I sighed, reaching to pull the sheets over my head to shut out the noise. Instead, my hand slid over the familiar feel of one of my papa’s suit jackets, wool and cashmere. But something was different. This one smelled like pine and cinnamon with a hint of cigar smoke. There was something very unfatherly about the scent, and it was what convinced me to open my eyes.

I groaned as a sharp pain shot through my skull.

“Khorosho, ty vstala,” a silver-haired man said, pulling a high-back leather chair from a large mahogany desk toward me. Square-framed glasses. White button-up. Black slacks. A cold sweat spread through me as I stared at the stethoscope around his neck.

Some people had nightmares about falling, or public nudity, or ghosts. Mine was waking up to a doctor looming over me. They were so cold and professional, with a snap of latex gloves and the reflection of blood and needles in their eyes.

The ache in my head thumped in tune with my heart as I sat up on a couch. A chill caressed my bare midsection, and I realized my ripped shirt had been partly concealed by the suit jacket. I slipped it on and pulled it closed.

Confusion clouded my thoughts as I took in the masculine, well-worn office. My breath stilled when I met eyes with a man leaning against the front of the desk. The man I ran into. The man I got a glimpse of before I fell at his feet, unconscious.