The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“Thought you weren’t a sore loser.”

I silently mused on his response. I’d never been a competitive person, but every conversation with Ronan seemed like a fight I needed to win. Maybe being kidnapped by a Russian mobster changed a girl, or maybe I just wanted to peel back the edges of his skin to reveal the monster beneath. It wasn’t fair he could cloak himself so easily in a handsome face and designer suits.

He stood, slipped his phone into his pocket, and buttoned his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kotyonok.” Then he walked out of the room without another word, leaving me alone once again, as if I was a mere fly of a thought swallowed whole by his plans for world domination.

He never answered my question, but his indifference and retreat invoked the idea I was wrong; that planning to manipulate my body and soul had never crossed his mind. Now, I felt ridiculous for coming to that conclusion. If he wanted to sleep with me so much, he could just take it. He wasn’t exactly anyone’s definition of a soft-handed man. Maybe he didn’t care enough to force the issue. Maybe these morning “dates” satisfied his desire for a side of ridicule with his breakfast.

I twirled my spoon in the bowl of porridge he didn’t force me to eat. An uneasy feeling swelled in my stomach. Disgustingly, I wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact Ronan might be losing interest in me or that the remaining hours of my papa’s life were ticking down on the timeclock.

The most revolting part of the scenario didn’t have to do with either of those things. As Ronan’s back disappeared from view, taking his “fucks” and the smell of the forest with him, a sense of loneliness took his place—a solitude Yulia’s presence couldn’t fill.

“Je le hais. Tu le hais. Nous le haïssons.” I hate him. You hate him. We hate him. I stared at the ceiling, wearily conjugating French verbs in the most amusing way I could muster.

The door opened, and, after a short pause filled by her bending down to pick the broken doorknob up off the floor, Yulia said, “This is house. Not barn.”

I believed she was talking about the hour I spent banging on the painfully solid door yelling, “LET ME OUT!” at five a.m. this morning. But who knew? In this house, she could be referring to my speaking French.

Ignoring her, I recited with zero enthusiasm, “Je le déteste. Tu le détestes. Nous le détestons.” I detest him. You detest him. We detest him.

A stern face entered my view of the ceiling. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m on my period,” I explained.

Her nose wrinkled like I was a singular and disgusting creature, then she disappeared from the room for a moment, making sure to dead bolt the door behind her, before returning with a box of tampons she dropped on my face.

“Ow,” I complained, rubbing my forehead.

She snickered.

“Witch,” I groused.

“Bitch.”

Today was the worst day for the cramps to creep up on me. This morning, I decided I would do anything to get out of this room: rein in the sarcasm, sell my soul, blow the devil—you name it. One more day of this madness, and I’d end up as crazy as Renfield in Dracula. I was already nocturnal and questioning my veganism. Tomorrow, I’d be eating bugs.

My uterus punishing me for not getting knocked up this month was going to make controlling my mouth much more difficult. I’d never admitted to being perfect, but on my period? I was far, far from it.

“You are late for breakfast, devushka.”

“Just let me die here in peace.”

“I like this room. Go die downstairs.”

Ten minutes later, I entered the dining room in a blouse the color of the sun and a flowy skirt with Yulia on my heels. She cast an apologetic look at Ronan for delivering me late. I wouldn’t blink if she bowed to him on her way out.

He merely nodded in acknowledgment, phone to his ear. I headed to my seat and loaded my plate with fruit. Ronan smiled at what whoever was on the other end of the line said. Probably Nadia. I felt a little sorry for her but also believed she had the personality of a goat-headed statue.

Lazily responding in Russian, Ronan watched me add three sugar cubes to my hot cup of tea. I had a bitter taste in my mouth, and only something sickly-sweet could wash it away.

Finally, he hung up, using an endearing and annoying goodbye, before shrouding the room in quiet. After a moment, he said, “If you wanted a cup of diabetes, you only had to ask.”

I bit the automatic retort back. Do you think two would be enough to end my time here with you? Instead, I said cordially, “I’m good. Thank you.”

He sat back, something close to amusement passing through his eyes. “Late night or early morning?” The insinuation was clear: he’d heard my shouting and banging on the door, and he’d ignored me.

Je suis calme. Tu es calme. Nous sommes calmes. I am calm. You are calm. We are calm.

“I just find it hard to sleep with all the excitement.” Sarcasm was a sneaky bitch who often got the best of me.