“Sorry, did you want to say grace first?”
He was amused. “It’s not exactly a routine of mine, but if you want to, I’ll listen.”
“So sure you won’t go up in flames?”
“Sounds like you’re counting on it.”
Catching Yulia’s gaze as she stepped into the room to water a plant near the window, I said, “Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
Another humph.
I turned my eyes back to the table to see Ronan watching me intensely. “Don’t patronize my staff, kotyonok.”
With a sense of annoyance, it felt like I was properly censured. “Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll call you whatever I want.”
I met his eyes with bitterness. “Does it make you feel big and strong to push me around?”
“No. It makes me hard.”
He held my gaze with purpose and “hard” still in the air. I refused to show that his crassness affected me.
“I’m curious, is your gentlemanliness an innate behavior, or did you take lessons?”
He slipped my earring into his pocket and rested an arm on his throne. “And if I did? You gonna write them a bad review on Yelp?”
“I’m sure Satan’s Institute for Local Psychos has enough of them.”
He ran a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip, a rough chuckle escaping him. When he laughed, he didn’t appear as threatening. One could never say he looked like a normal man, but something altogether more devious and timeless.
When the laugh faded, caressing every inch of my body, he asked, “Did you sleep well?”
Of course not. I was covered in blood and guilt.
I was sure Ronan slept like a baby.
Stabbing a piece of blin, I said sweetly, “Great. Thank you.”
“You’re a pathetic liar.”
“We can’t all be as underhanded as you, can we?” The pancake tasted like a mouthful of dirt. “Tell me how long you’re going to keep me here.”
The flare of his eyes expressed he didn’t like me telling him what to do. He ran a finger around the rim of his teacup, eliciting a haunting ring that rose the hair on the back of my neck.
“There has to be an expiration date to this little soirée.”
His concentrated gaze held mine, and that ring continued and continued, fraying the edges of my nerves. Apparently, he was only going to stare at me like I was a worthless plebeian. Every second he remained silent, the longer my heartbeats stretched until I couldn’t handle the tension. I was approaching dangerous territory, edging near a viper’s nest just to see how close I could go before I got bit, but hatred and a reckless sense of bravery spurred me on.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” I shrugged a shoulder, bringing my teacup to my lips. “I bet Albert’s lurking around here somewhere. He may not be a Chatty Cathy, but I’m sure I can figure out a way to get him to talk.”
I knew I’d gone too far even before his hand lashed out, grabbed me by the throat, and pulled me in. The cup slipped from my fingers, and hot tea spilled down my dress, but I felt nothing except the flight of the pulse beneath his grip as the ring from his teacup faded.
“Don’t manipulate me,” he growled.
I swallowed at the restraint in his grip. He could crush my windpipe if he wanted to. The insinuation behind the warning squeeze that shortened my air supply conveyed he was allowing me to breathe, to live, and I should be thankful.
Head tilted to the ceiling, my eyes held his, expressing every ounce of resentment inside. But discomfort blended into something strange and electric when his thumb slid down the side of my neck. The action dulled the toxic heat in the air, smothering it with a simple soft touch.
“So ready to go home . . . What’s waiting for you, kotyonok?”
A heavy diamond on my finger and a monotonous life behind golden gates that glimmered beneath a Floridian sun. In truth, without my papa, I had nothing of worth in Miami, but I refused to let this man know that.
The words escaped between pants. “My life.”
“This is your life now.” His voice lowered to a dangerous level. “I’ll release you when I’m finished with you—no sooner.”
We only breathed in each other’s fury for a few seconds before he freed me. I fought to not rub my throat and remove the heat his hand left behind. Frozen in fading adrenaline, I watched him bring a teacup to his mouth. Tattooed fingers and fine china. It felt like I was Persephone dining with Hades, except the goddess came to love the ruler of the underworld.
And this wasn’t a divine romance.
“The sooner I tire of your presence, the sooner you’ll get to say goodbye to your papa. For his sake, I would do a better job of appeasing me.”
A naked jaunt through Chernobyl sounded better than “appeasing” this man.
My dress was soaked, my neck was probably red, and my temples ached from the hatred in my eyes. A well-balanced person would take pity on me and release me from this twisted tea party. Unfortunately, Ronan was as rational as Mr. Hyde.
“Eat.”
Somehow, I found an appetite—or just enough pride to pretend so. The devil sat back in his chair in Givenchy, an iPhone in hand, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was playing a game. I could only imagine it was a twisted version of Pac-Man, but instead of dots, his emoji ate up souls.
“If you’re finished, Yulia will escort you to your room.”
On cue, she appeared in the doorway, dispensing all doubt the walls of this house were alive, fueled by Russian tea and black magic.
I pushed my chair back and dutifully followed Yulia to my room, where, with a jingle of keys like a headmistress, she locked me in my cage.
sapiosexual
(n.) one who is attracted to or aroused by intelligence in others
Ronan and I did the same dance for three days.
We ate breakfast together like a couple with serious marital problems, then he went to Moscow to manipulate and maim most likely, and I was escorted back to my room.
In an effort to earn some freedom and a way out of this nightmare, I behaved as best as my mouth would allow even though I wanted to scream inside.
Ronan, Yulia, and the silent maid were the only faces I saw day in and out, and it was starting to mess with my head. I didn’t know when the shift happened, but I began to look forward to breakfast if only to escape the mind-eating boredom.
On the third morning, I came to a realization.
“I know what you’re doing,” I announced at the dining table.
Ronan lifted his gaze from the iPhone that was probably glued to his hand. If “Tasty!” and “Delicious!” in a deep Candy Crush voice weren’t coming from the stupid device, it constantly pinged with texts and emails.
A brow rose. “And what am I doing?”
“You’re trying to Stockholm syndrome me.”
I thought he wanted to laugh. “I don’t think that’s a verb.”
“Like I need grammar advice from someone who uses ‘fuck’ as a noun, verb, and adverb in a single sentence.”
“Fuck is versatile.”
“Not that versatile.”
The full weight of his gaze could rival a shock wave. “When I fuck you, kotyonok, I promise, you’ll use ‘fuck’ in more ways than I ever fucking have.”