I tried to shut out his invasive presence, but his gaze and silence were living beings—two little demons that sat on each of my shoulders.
Je l’ignore. Tu l’ignores. Nous l’ignorons. I ignore him. You ignore him. We ignore him.
“I’m thirsty, kotyonok.”
Fork halfway to my lips, I stilled at the languid tenor in his voice that practically demanded I serve him. After a disbelieving beat ticked by, I allowed my gaze to travel to the lazy bastard, who lounged in his chair and, I knew from experience, had full use of both of his hands.
“Sloth is a sin,” I said, my gaze narrowed.
“So is pride,” he returned. “In fact, it’s believed to be the deadliest of them all.”
Ugh. Now I had to serve him, or I was the greater sinner. I hated whoever took the time to teach this man the Bible.
I dropped my fork and forced a smile. “Tea or water, D’yavol?”
Elbow resting on the arm of his chair, he ran a thumb across his jaw like he was thinking about it. A hint of pleasure sparkled in his eyes at the demeaning situation he’d put me in.
My bare foot began to tap impatiently beneath the table, temper rising higher each second he took to make up his damn mind. His boot gently came down on my foot to halt the tapping.
“Tea.”
Pouring him a cup, I asked, “Sugar?”
“No.”
With a plop, the sugar cube sank to the bottom of his cup, and I slid it to him with the hope he was allergic. Just as I picked my fork back up, he opened his mouth again.
“Now that I think about it, water would be better.”
My restraint snapped, and the first words to enter my mind escaped. “Why are you the way that you are?”
The smallest flicker of humor arose, but at the disrespectful tone, his eyes darkened, and that expensive boot pressed a little harder on my foot.
“You’re narcissistic I find you amusing.”
While that sentence wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, it hit its mark and filled the space between us with a silent awareness. He was mocking my play on “lucky” from our earlier conversation. The devil understood the workings of my chaotic mind so well, I wasn’t sure what it said about me.
A sense of closeness constricted my throat, and I pulled my foot out from underneath his boot. I’d most assuredly screwed my chances of gaining any freedom today, and I’d lost the humility to beg for it. I needed to cut my losses before I felt the sharp bite of fangs.
“May I be excused?”
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
See, this was what happened when I tried to behave.
We sat in a tense and uncomfortable silence for too long. I was beyond full, so I entertained myself by pulling my leftover toast into tiny pieces. Ronan wasn’t even eating but checking his messages while I was forced to sit there like a child at the dinner table.
“Are you going to eat?” I blurted. “Or do you prefer to dine on human hearts in private?”
He glanced up at me. “You know what I prefer to dine on in private.”
Unwilling to continue that conversation, I changed the subject. “I want to talk to my papa.”
“Tough.”
My blood began to simmer. “Tell me, did you sell your soul, or does evil just run in the family?”
“Genetics probably play a factor in it. You should know. You have your mother’s blood in you.”
He could humiliate me all he wanted, but I wasn’t giving him my mother’s memory.
“Stop lying about her,” I growled.
He raised a brow, lips tilting as he taunted, “Your mother was sick, kotyonok. And I mean in a strangling-puppies way. Though, sick or not, from what I’ve heard, she was a great fuck—”
I threw my tea in his face.
All the pent-up resentment burst like a party popper, all over Ronan’s somehow calm and furious expression. Tension drowned the oxygen in the room before everything went deathly still. I was frozen to my chair, blood pulsating with adrenaline and a cold sense of dread.
He wiped his face with a hand, voice cool but restrained between clenched teeth. “I’ll give you a head start.”
If I ran from him, he would chase me. If I didn’t run . . .
He would kill me.
Terrifying things like FedEx boxes danced in my mind. Fear pierced my lungs and stole the breath from within. My chair tipped backward to the floor when I jumped to my feet, and then, I fled the room knowing I should have quit while I was ahead.
typhlobasia
(n.) kissing with the eyes closed
Having bolted with panic in my veins and no sense of direction, I slammed my bathroom door behind me, locked it, and stepped back, racing heart swelling in my throat.
Ronan was a rotten cheat. Everyone knew a head start was at least ten Mississippis. I got three seconds by the sound of his heavy steps that had pursued mine as soon as I reached the top of the staircase. He was quicker than humanly possible, his shadow nearly consuming my own before I locked myself in here.
“Open the door,” Ronan demanded, his words too calm for comfort.
Even knowing the contents of this bathroom down to the number of Q-tips, I dug through the vanity drawers in the hope something would magically appear to help me defend myself. No doubt Yulia had a key, and she would happily assist her master.
“You have five seconds to open this door before I break it down.”
I threw a brush over my shoulder. “Good luck with that.” I managed to respond in a cool voice even though the idea sent a wave of uncertainty through me. I’d tried to kick and pound and picklock my bedroom door, which was the same make as this one, and I’d achieved a number of injuries but not a single dent. “Your stupid doors could endure a tornado—”
Bang!
I jumped back when the only divider between us flew open and slammed against the wall with such force the top hinge snapped. The door swayed awkwardly until another kick broke it free from its frame, and then the solid piece of wood hit the floor inches from my bare feet with a loud thwack that rattled my body.
Eyes lifting to meet black ones that didn’t hold a sparkle, a toothbrush slipped from my fingers. Cold fear paralyzed me to the spot. I stared at him, chest heaving with the expectation of his retaliation. Regardless of what he had in store for me, I refused to plead for my life. If pride sent me to hell, so be it. At least I would leave this world with my dignity intact.
Ronan moved toward me, those expensive boots treading on the fallen door. The clank of metal brought my gaze to his hands, and as I watched him pull his belt from its loops, my heart fell through my stomach.
He was going to whip me like Carlo beat his pregnant wife in The Godfather.
Screw dignity.
“I’m sorry!” The words escaped on an uneven breath.
“No, you’re not, malen’kaya lgunishka.”
Legs carrying me backward, he followed my retreat. The coolness of the stone shower floor met my feet. I was trapped, and he was closing in on me with that lax belt in his grip. I should accept the pain to bring me back to reality; to remember his company was nothing but a herald of death. It sounded good in theory, but in reality? It sounded like it would freaking hurt.
Grabbing a bottle of shampoo, I chucked it at him. “You deserved it!”