The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“Your concentration of watching me sleep.”

“Yes,” he growled.

His response would be amusing if my heart wasn’t burning and retaliating against the decision I’d made. Nervously, I focused on messing with the tape that held my IV in my hand.

“So if revenge isn’t on your mind right now, then what is?”

“I’m waiting.”

I glanced at him. “For what?”

His eyes narrowed. “For the speech of forgiveness, ‘but it’s probably best if we part ways.’”

I looked away, unable to see the turmoil flaring in his eyes. He didn’t like

being left behind—yet it seemed he was by everyone who mattered to him. And knowing I was only another one of them tightened my throat, burning the backs of my eyes.

It wasn’t until he got to his feet and set a single heart-shaped earring on the bedside table that the panic kick-started in my chest. What was I doing? Why was I doing this? As he headed to the door, my heart screamed at me to stop him. Stop. Please stop . . . But the grip on my throat refused to let out any words.

Ronan paused in the doorway for a second. He turned his head to meet my eyes and promised, “This isn’t proshchay.”

Taking a bullet had nothing on the pain of watching him walk away from me. The ache started in my heart, this raw bleeding throb, before it clawed at the walls of my chest.

It wasn’t proshchay.

The promise didn’t matter right now.

I wanted him back. Desperation burned in my blood, demanding I run after him and tell him it was just a mistake. Frantically, I tugged at the IV in my hand as the heartache tore through me, sending sobs up my throat that wracked my chest.

It wasn’t proshchay.

Just as I pulled out the IV, the chaotic energy inside faded, leaving me so drained I could only cover my mouth as tears poured down my cheeks. I ignored the sharp throb in my stomach. A machine began to beep, alerting me to the fact a nurse would be in here soon, but I didn’t expect a dog.

Khaos jumped on the bed and lay down beside me. Sobbing, I ran my hand through his fur, hugged him tight, and said, “It isn’t proshchay . . .”

lacuna

(n.) a blank space; a missing part

The gunshot wound in my arm throbbed and bled through my shirt. I must have busted some stitches open when I punched Alexei. And then Albert, who simply opened the car door for me after Mila dismissed me from her life. I didn’t know how to get rid of this irritable, edgy sensation beneath my skin besides violence—and even that didn’t release the tight, hollow ache in my chest.

It felt like she was stealing something from me.

Pain I could stand.

Robbery I could not.

“I flew back for ‘important’ business just to watch you silently muse on all your life choices,” my brother said in Russian, sitting on my office couch. “Care to share?”

I didn’t know how to explain the feeling in any other way, so I sat back in my chair and said, “She stole from me.”

He raised a brow. “Your pet?”

“Her name is Mila,” I growled.

Kristian sipped the vodka in his glass, trying to conceal a smile. “So what’d she take? You do have some nice crystal glasses.”

I didn’t know why I’d opened my mouth. Clearly, all of this was out of my element, and my brother was loving every second of it. I narrowed my eyes and tapped my pen on the desk as that unsettling feeling clawed at my chest.