The Darkest Temptation (Made Book 3)

acatalepsy

(n.) the inability to truly comprehend anything

MILA

I didn’t move when the door shut behind him. A cool draft touched my bare skin and sent a shiver through me. I was naked and cold, my wrists secured uncomfortably above my head, but somehow, I managed to drift off to sleep.

Self-loathing was exhausting.

I woke to the sun slanting across my body and an uncomfortable pressure in my bladder.

For the first time, I viewed the room in daylight. I lay in the middle of a king-size bed with an elaborate iron headboard and a white duvet. Heavy drapes, the color of blood, framed the window with a reading seat beneath. The space was large, conveying wealth in a traditionally Russian way. Seeing no personal effects, I surmised I was in a guest room.

My eyes settled on a cracked wooden door leading into what I hoped was a bathroom. I really had to pee, and I wasn’t about to add urinating all over myself to my list of humiliations.

I jerked against the ropes, trying to twist my wrists out of them, but they were so tight, all I managed to do was rub my skin raw. I let out an angry sound of frustration and pulled hard against them, ready to take the headboard down if I had to.

At the sound of the door opening, I froze.

A dark-haired woman stood in the doorway wearing skinny jeans and a frayed T-shirt over the slight curve of her pregnant belly. She held a toddler on her hip who wore an oversized Possessed band T-shirt as a dress and knitted thigh-high socks. And I swore, she was watching me with a hint of judgement in her eyes.

For an uneasy moment, I thought the woman could be Ronan’s girlfriend and daughter. But then she spoke.

“Please tell me this is some kind of kinky role-play.”

I didn’t know what to say, but my expression must have told her everything she needed to know.

She sighed and muttered, “In-laws.”

I vaguely recognized this might be the sister-in-law Ronan mentioned, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it because a man stepped into the doorway dressed in a cool blue suit, a sippy cup in hand.

The woman hefted the girl higher on her hip, her voice dry as she nodded toward me. “Christian, look at what your brother has done.”

My body tightened in mortification when his gaze came my way, though he seemed to be assessing the situation more than noticing I was completely naked. His face was stunning, carved from ice into perfection, and the mere touch of his eyes made me recall that photo in Ronan’s office.

He was the other boy.

Christian looked away from me and said simply, “She’s a Mikhailov.”

“What’s Mikhailov?” the little girl asked.

The woman put a hand on her hip. “I don’t care if she’s Satan’s daughter—”

“Close,” he responded.

“Satan has horns.” The girl looked at me with a sense of disappointment. “She don’t have horns.”

Weird child aside, wasn’t Christian’s brother the one they called D’yavol? I hated how everyone looked at me like I was some kind of monster. Now that I knew what business my papa was in, all the cold, fearful glances I’d received since arriving in Moscow suddenly made sense.

“I’m not leaving her like this,” the woman said.

“Mamma,” her daughter whispered. “Is she my babywatcher?”

“Babysitter. And no, cara mia.”

“Oh.” The girl pursed her lips. “Then we should probably let her go, Papa.”

How old was this girl? And had she been raised in a den of vipers?

He didn’t look pleased with his wife and daughter ganging up on him, but he didn’t argue. He grabbed the girl from her arms and turned toward me, his voice colder than a Russian winter.

“Touch my wife, and what my brother has done to you will suddenly look like fun.”

I swallowed.

His wife rolled her eyes. “He’s a little intense, but he means well.” She tried to shut the door, but he stopped it from closing with his foot, giving her a meaningful look to leave it open. She smiled innocently at him, like she’d behave. When he finally left, she waited with an impatient tap of her cheetah-print stilettos until he was far enough down the hall he wouldn’t notice, then she shut it.

“I’m Gianna, by the way.” She walked toward me. “I’m sure you don’t go by Mikhailov?”

I hesitated, not knowing what to expect from her considering her husband was terrifying, and her brother-in-law should be committed. Finally, I answered, “Mila.”

“Nice to meet you, Mila.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “Where are you from?”

“Miami.”

“Oh, I adore Miami. I’ve never eaten better Cuban food anywhere else,” she said, adding with amusement, “but, then again, I haven’t exactly been to Cuba.”

I stared at her. I wasn’t sure what kind of world I’d stepped into, and it was starting to hurt my head.

Gianna struggled with the rope on my wrist, murmuring in a language I thought was Italian. She was, so far, the nicest—if questionably sane—person I’d met since setting foot in Moscow.

“He learned how to tie a knot in prison,” I said tonelessly.

“Among other things, I’m sure,” she parried as if she was annoyed. “I wonder if he engaged in a threesome too.”

She laughed at my blankly confused expression. “Sorry, that was just my aversion to prison nurses showing. It happens at the oddest times.” She finally freed a wrist before moving to the other, and I winced at the ache in my muscles as I lowered my arm to my side. “I’ve never known Ronan to tie a woman to a bed only to leave her there. I hope it’s just a phase.”

I was beginning to understand crazy was just the norm around here.

“We can only hope,” I said drily. Then, I added with unease, “Does his girlfriend live here?”

That amused her. “I’m sure hell will freeze over before Ronan is monogamous.” She paused to look me over, her gaze settling on my neck, which I knew was marked with a hickey. “But then again . . . this makes me feel a little optimistic.”

I didn’t think she was kidding.

I would hate to see how she and her husband got together.

“I thought Nadia was his girlfriend,” I said slowly.

She wrinkled her nose. “No, thankfully. She would make an awful sister-in-law. I can just imagine the dinner conversation.”

A modicum of relief filled me at the knowledge I hadn’t fooled around with someone’s boyfriend. The idea only added to the sickness of the situation. However, that was the least of my worries right now.

“I try to stay out of my husband and his brother’s business, but sometimes, eavesdropping gets the best of me. Ronan has an issue with your papa, not you.” She tugged at the rope with an Italian curse. “I’m sure it won’t be long until he concedes, and this is all sorted out.”

She seemed indifferent to the fact concede meant my papa’s head would decorate Ronan’s mantel. The hopelessness of this situation pulled on my chest while I stared at the ceiling.

“My papa already agreed to trade himself for me.”

She raised a brow. “Then why does Ronan still need you?”

“Torture.”

She laughed and then sobered when she realized I was serious. “Well . . . that’s interesting.”

Being sane and all, I had different words for the situation.

The other rope fell free, and I rolled off the bed. “Thank you. I just have to—”

“Go. I’ll find you some clothes.”

Thankfully, the cracked door led into a bathroom, and I released a sigh as I relieved myself. I washed my hands and face with a bar of soap and then found a spare toothbrush in the vanity drawer that I made use of, scrubbing the acidic taste of last night’s festivities from my mouth.

I returned to the room, suddenly feeling very, very naked.

Gianna sat on the bed with an article of clothing in her hand. “Here you go.”

I thanked her before slipping it on. The black, oversized T-shirt had Elvis Presley’s face on it, and it reached only to the tops of my thighs.

“Sorry,” she said. “The shirt was all I could get. Ronan gave me a growly look that swore retribution.”

My expression conveyed alarm for her.

She smiled. “He’s more bark than bite, I promise.”

“I saw him cut off a man’s finger, and he’s going to kill my papa.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess that puts him in an awkward light, doesn’t it?”

Bad light, I corrected in my head.

I was that person.

“I’m sorry about your papa. I am. But you’ve been thrown into the underworld, and here, things aren’t always black and white.”

I contemplated her words while she moved to the door.

“I have to go. My husband gave me a look that said we won’t be staying for dinner. Which is a shame because Polina makes the best medovik.” She rubbed a hand over her pregnant belly. “Anyway, I’m sure next time we meet, there’ll be less ropes and more clothes.”

She sounded optimistic, but I could only see my body parts being shipped off in FedEx boxes, my papa’s coffin, and, if I survived this, a world to traverse on my own. My stomach tightened. A burn stung the backs of my eyes.

Compassion filled her gaze, her hand on the knob. “Just remember . . . you have a goddess inside you.” She stepped into the hall and turned to look at me. “You just have to find her.”