“They say you are Mikhailova,” she said very slowly.
The last thing I wanted was to make small talk, but my manners forced me to respond. “They’re correct.”
“They also say you are witch.”
I could only give a hint of a smile.
“You do not look like one.” Her unimpressed gaze slid down my wet hair and T-shirt dress. “Or like prisoner.”
“I guess they come in many shapes and forms.” I wasn’t sure if we were talking about being a witch or a prisoner at this point, though I guessed the statement worked for both.
“You seem . . .” She frowned as if she had to force the word out. “Nice. But what do they say?” She tapped her lips in thought, then her eyes lit up with a snap of her fingers. “Blood will out.”
Her excitement to use the expression watered down the insult. Apparently, she’d heard the rumors of my mother. Or my papa. I guessed I had a lot of bad blood on both sides, but it was clear she spoke of the former when her gaze slid to the hickey on my neck and she purred, “Though it seems you have already gone down that road.”
Kylie was a total buzzkill. I didn’t respond and added some sugar to my tea, which seemed to annoy her.
“You must know he does not actually vant you.”
A kernel of bitterness infiltrated my chest. It must be everyone’s mission to ruin my pleasant state of depression this morning.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I told her blandly, “but yes, I’m fully aware.”
Ronan stepped through the doorway dressed in Givenchy, and by the hint of violence in his gaze, he’d overheard the conversation. What an eavesdropper.
He sat down in his chair like any other morning. I was again invisible to Kylie as she turned her full attention to Ronan and worked on his place setting. It couldn’t be more obvious she’d waited to do it until he arrived. And, really, how many forks did he need? I buttered a piece of toast and ignored the scene while she spoke to him in Russian.
“Tea. Then get the fuck out of my house.”
My butter knife faltered for a split second. That was a, “You’re fired!” to rival The Apprentice. Kylie shot me a hostile expression as if it was my fault, quickly poured Ronan’s tea, and fled the room.
“Do you seriously let people talk to you like that?” Ronan growled, his irate gaze on me. I avoided looking at him as if he were Medusa.
“Like what?”
“Don’t play games with me.” His anger chafed my skin. “She practically called you a whore.”
The fact he was acting like he cared swept over me in an itchy wave of frustration, but if I didn’t contain all feeling, I was afraid I’d explode like Hiroshima.
“You love calling me a whore,” I returned indifferently. “And you told me to not patronize your staff. I was just doing what you told me to.”
With a growl, he gripped my face and turned it to his. I didn’t fight the hold, but I refused to meet his gaze. The eye contact would turn me to stone and then crack—right down the middle.
“If you’re trying to please me right now, you’re failing massively.”
“Just tell me what you’d like me to do in those situations, and I promise, I’ll do better next time.”
“You can start by not pretending you don’t give a fuck.” When he released me roughly, I promptly turned my attention back to my plate. I knew he was talking about last night, but I played dumb.
“I don’t care what your servants think of me.”
“I swear to God, Mila.” He stole the fork from my hand and placed it next to all five of his.
Searching through the multitude of dishes on the table, I asked, “Do you have peanut butter? I prefer peanut butter on my toast.”
“You’re going hungry until we talk about last night.”
Nope. Not having that conversation. Just the thought agitated my self-control and expanded an emotional demon in my chest that grabbed ahold of my throat. I wouldn’t give this man one more tear.
His phone rang, and while he pulled it from his pocket and hit ignore, I tipped a dish to look inside of it, frowning at the sight of honey. “Why don’t we just make a party of it and stomp on some bees for breakfast?”
“Stop. With the. Goddamn. Dishes.” He was close to throwing me out with the dogs again.
“I don’t like dry toast,” I said, continuing to peruse the condiments. “Seriously, no peanut butter? Are you on a budget or something?”
With one calm flick of his hand, the entire twelve-seater table tipped on its side, taking down chairs in its path. Dishes, plates, and silverware slid across the wood and clattered to the marble floor. The bang rattled my bones, washing away the numbness inside of me on a hot tide of resentment.
There went my freaking breakfast.
My burning gaze slid to Ronan to see he had the audacity to sit back in his throne and straighten his jacket cuff.
“I think you’re holding a grudge, kotyonok. Not so altruistic now, are you?”
Heat cascaded down my body like an avalanche. “You’re one to talk,” I snapped and shot to my feet. “The only reason I’m here is due to one massive grudge you have with my papa.”
“Sit the fuck down.”
“You sit down!” He wasn’t even standing. He sat all composed as if he hadn’t just destroyed the room and my good mood.
Inked finger tapping the armrest, he said darkly, “Your papa is the last reason you’re still here.”
I was too unbalanced to figure out what he meant. The confusion only sparked more anger within.
“You shouldn’t have fired Kylie,” I told him coldly. “She’d appreciate your evasiveness and peach emojis more than I ever could.”
“She’s a manipulative bitch. And I didn’t like the way she was talking to you.”
“Please,” I scoffed, turning away from him. “What she said was less insulting than what you’ve said to me.”
“You want me to apologize for that too?”
I spun to face him. “I want you to let me go!”
My chest heaved in the silence that followed. Too late, I realized I was looking him in the eyes, which were blue and unwavering. I felt myself turning to stone. Cracks weaved through my resolve, splintering the anger and flooding in the thick emotion I didn’t want. The ache returned to my chest so intensely tears burned their way to the surface.
I turned to walk away from him, through the maze of chairs, but I didn’t reach the door. He grabbed my wrist and forced my back against the overturned table before bracing his hands on either side to cage me in. By the tension lining his shoulders, he was completely fed up with me.
“I don’t regret a lot of things, kotyonok, but I do regret what I did last night.”
“Because you almost lost your collateral,” I replied emotionlessly.
“No,” he said harshly. “Because you could have died.”
I wanted to believe him so much a cold sweat spread through me, but his voice was also so heavy my lungs fought for a dose of oxygen. I needed air, though when I tried to escape, he wouldn’t let me go. Not from the room, the house, or his life. The hold he had on my waist was like granite; hard but smooth to the touch. Futilely, I struggled even as the smell of him—a scent so rough and persuasive—reached my heart, convincing me the last thing I wanted was for him to let me go.