The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

The sight of tears streaming down her cheeks tightened my throat. She’d thought I was dead. No way I’d go down half-naked lying on a loveseat. The idea would almost be amusing if seeing Mila cry didn’t make me feel like shit. Though the fact those tears were for me sent a warm sensation to my chest I could only associate with Christmas cheer. I didn’t even like Christmas.

“I thought you believed I couldn’t die, kotyonok,” I said roughly.

She swallowed. “There’s so much blood . . .”

A full moon lit the room almost as well as the overhead light. Blood dripped down my arm, coating my chest and her hands. She must have taken off my shirt to check the damage. I was surprised I didn’t wake up, though I hadn’t taken care of the gunshot wound as well as I should have. Alexei’s games made that impossible.

Albert had dug the bullet out and wrapped up my arm, but it seemed to be bleeding decently now by the small puddle on the floor. The fact I could move my arm fine told me it looked a lot worse than it was.

“It’s not all mine.” The blood on my chest wasn’t.

“Whose?” Her voice wavered. She probably thought it was her papa’s. It should be. Would be.

“A priest’s.” As blasphemous as it sounded, he was a really shitty priest on Alexei’s payroll.

She sawed her lip between her teeth. “Oh.”

I was sure she’d have something more to say once the statement sank in, but she remained silent, sitting on the edge of the couch in nothing but one of my T-shirts. She looked like Michelangelo’s wet dream. As usual, she wasn’t wearing a bra, her nipples visible beneath the white fabric. Apparently, I still had some blood left in me, and it rushed to my groin.

Tear-stained cheeks. Glistening eyes. Legs I would die for. She was so beautiful, the sight punched me in the gut. A train car had exploded like a scene in an action movie, but when pills dropped from the sky, all I saw was the memory of Mila dressed in yellow, standing on cracked pavement catching snowflakes in her hand.

Greedier men than me were out there—her papa included—but I suddenly knew I had them beat as the impatient, covetous heat erupted inside for this girl who cried for me.

Pulling her lip free from her teeth, I ran an inked thumb across her mouth. “Nothing to say about my blackened soul?”

Her soft eyes lifted to mine. “No.”

My gaze hardened, her response sending an irrational lash of annoyance through me. The knowledge was difficult to admit to myself, but I liked this girl an indecent amount. I liked her in my home—even with all the mud she dragged in. I liked her full attention and smart mouth. But what I really liked was her heart—the pliable organ in her chest I could mold to fit my hand like Play-Doh.

Her tears, her trusting eyes, her fucking existence—all of it made it impossible to imagine her walking away from me while I watched from a distance, my palm containing a remnant of sticky yellow Play-Doh I’d never be able to wash off.

My thumb pressed down on her lips, smearing my inner turmoil across the soft pout of her mouth. Her lack of self-preservation used to amuse me; now, it made me want to keep her locked in a bulletproof room only I had access to. And I didn’t currently have one of those.

“Stupid kotyonok,” I growled in frustration.

Those cat-shaped eyes that originally gave her the nickname narrowed, and she jerked free from my grip. “You’re the stupid one lying here bleeding out.”

Now, she was moy kotyonok because she was sickly sweet until she bared her claws.

Grabbing her by the throat, I tugged her lips to mine. She exhaled into my mouth, the slide of my tongue cutting off her protests. She braced her hands beside my head in an effort to keep her body weight off mine. I’d been shot in the arm, not the chest, though somehow, it felt like the latter when she was around.

I nipped at her lips and feeling the wetness on her cheeks that belonged to me, I grew harder.

“No,” she breathed into my mouth, trying to pull away from me, but my body took it figuratively—as in, fucking forever—and my grip tightened, the chaos inside me rising to the surface.

She turned her head. “Ronan . . . no.”

“What did I say about that word?”

“You’re bleeding. Badly.” She sounded so distressed, I relaxed my grip but couldn’t stop myself from running my mouth down her neck, leaving a mark on her in the only way I knew how.

Releasing her flesh with a scrape of teeth, I said, “That’s what happens when you get shot.”

“You need to go to the hospital.” She struggled against me. “Seriously, what are you doing lying here?”

“I was trying to take a nap. But now I’m in the mood for something else.” I grabbed her thighs and pulled her to straddle me, ignoring the fire in my arm. The pain had nothing on the sudden physical need to be inside her. Oddly, I didn’t think the desire had anything to do with my dick.

“I’m not having sex with you right now.”