The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

It was only half past nine, but the sun had set hours ago. The convenience store’s outside lights shone so brightly they were almost glaring, yet fear cloaked me like a shadow.

“There are bad men out at this time, you see.” His attention rested on the candy bar he took his time opening. He bit off a piece, and his gaze met mine. “We would not want anything bad to happen to you, would we?”

I shook my head.

“Then continue on.” He gestured for me to go with the candy bar, but I was already walking away, feeling the crawl of his eyes on my back. “Enjoy your snacks . . . Mila.”

The haunting sound of my name on his lips squeezed my lungs.

I walked aimlessly down the street, unable to shake the foreboding presence that touched my skin. It was a Friday night, and multiple people were out, but the crowd did little to quell my anxiety.

After stopping at an outside ATM, I got lucky to see a taxi dropping someone off in front of the movie theater and slipped into the back seat before he could flip his “Vacant” light on.

The driver spewed a plethora of Russian complaints—something about being done for the night and his mother—but when I handed him a wad of cash, he shut his mouth. He watched me through the rearview mirror, exasperated, when I gave him vague directions to Ronan’s restaurant. Flustered, I mentioned Ronan’s full name as if it may help, and, surprisingly, it did.

Annoyance fading, the driver looked at me like I just sprouted horns from my head. “Vy uverenny?” Are you sure?

“Da?”

He muttered something in Russian that sounded like, “I hate this job,” before he put the car into drive.

With shaky hands, I dialed Ivan’s number. My skin chafed with impatience as it rang and rang, and then, finally, it went to voicemail.

“Ivan . . .” I began, my throat thick. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but I think you’re right. I think someone might be watching me. I’m sorry for not believing you . . .” I swallowed. “I—I met a man. His name is Ronan, and he owns a restaurant. I’m going there now. I’ll text you the address when I arrive.” My voice cracked. “I’m scared, Ivan.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I ended the call.

The driver sped off as soon as I stepped out and shut the door, probably hurrying home to his mother. Darkness shrouded the restaurant. It looked closed, but the door wasn’t locked, so I pushed it open and walked inside.

The bartender watched me warily with a towel over his shoulder while he washed glasses. Kostya sat on a stool next to the hallway, his phone in his hand. When he saw me, he fixed me with a heavy stare.

“Is Ronan in?” I asked.

He regarded me thoughtfully for an uncomfortable amount of time, the silence itching beneath my skin, and then he gestured down the hall without a word. The bartender bit out a sharp curse. Words were exchanged between the two men, but I didn’t stick around to hear any more.

I passed the kitchen, which sat empty and dark. Stopping in front of Ronan’s office, I saw it lay vacant as well, though a few masculine voices reached my ears from down the hall. The chill of unease returned, curling in my stomach as I forced my feet toward the sound. The back room door was cracked, and I inched it open.

My heart stopped.

A man sat in a metal folding chair, his hands tied at his wrists, which rested on the table in front of him. His face was black and blue, white T-shirt covered in blood. My stomach roiled, but the confusion and horror trumped the dizziness that tried to pull me under.

Albert leaned against the back door smoking a cigarette and watching the scene with a bored expression. Other men occupied the room, but I could only see Ronan.

He sat with his elbows on his knees while he ran a finger across the sharp edge of a knife. He was talking, the words low and English. His voice sounded different than when he spoke to me. It was tainted with darkness and thrill; the kind of voice that thrived on lust and pain and control. I picked his words apart through the drumming of blood in my ears, putting them together like a puzzle.

It was a nightmare come to life.

Ronan was asking whether anyone really needed a pinkie finger. It sounded like a rhetorical question, but a few men piped up.

“He might forget the size of his cock with no finger to compare it to.”

“His wife would miss the shocker,” one said, eliciting hearty laughs around the room.

Ronan smiled. “I guess she will have to get it elsewhere.”

My vision dimmed, terror inflating in my throat, when he stood and slammed the man’s hands flat on the table.

“Any last words as a ten-fingered man?”