The Darkest Temptation (Made Book 3)

abience

(n.) the strong urge to avoid someone

MILA

The sun rose to fill the space with rays, bound wrists, and retribution.

Yulia entered the room adorned in black, exuding irritation when she noticed the broken chair on the floor. Unperturbed by the sight of me, she took her time tidying things up while humming a creepy tune. I wondered where Ronan found his employees. The insane asylum?

Dried blood marched like ants down my body, itching and chafing. Worse than the crawling sensation was the guilt I fought from rising to the surface. I shouldn’t feel remorse for defending myself, but a tightness still invaded my chest. I wondered if the blood on my skin was an eternal stain I could never wash off. I wondered if that man had family, children. The idea made me sick to my stomach, so, for the hundredth time, I forced the thought away and decided I needed to escape this place before it swallowed me whole.

My gaze found Yulia who was dusting the room with single-minded purpose. Every woman had to have a little maternal instinct inside of them. Maybe I could play on her sympathies to help me. I jumped when she smacked the dresser with a loud thwack. Then, she flicked a quarter-size spider to the floor with a disturbing amount of satisfaction. Obviously, the motherly side in this one was smaller than most, but it wasn’t like I had many other options.

“Do you have children?” I asked her.

“Ikh slishkom mnogo.” Too many of them.

Not exactly the best start, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. “What would you do if one of them was in my situation?”

“I would tell them not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

I blinked slowly. “I must be unfamiliar with Russian gifts. In America, being kidnapped isn’t equivalent to unwrapping a tin of butter cookies and that hideous scarf your grandma knitted for you on Christmas morning.”

With a roll of her eyes, she moved to right the rug. “There are worse things than being fed three times a day.”

“Like being tied to a bed covered in blood all night?”

“You got yourself into that mess, devushka.” She must room next door or have secret passages in the walls she peeked through. I was growing annoyed she was painting me in the wrong here, and even more irritated a part of me felt she was right.

“And I imagine you’d just lie here and take it,” I said in disbelief.

“You are dramatic. Master is not bad man.”

A constant beat ached in my head whenever someone spoke to me in this home that defied all rationality. The only thing Ronan needed in order to become the classic villain straight from the pages of a vampire novel was fangs. The fact Yulia couldn’t see that, given she just referred to him as “Master,” conjured the mental image of him brainwashing her with a supernatural power.

“I’m not sure how men courted in your day and age, but in the twenty-first century, this”—I tugged at the ropes on my wrists—“isn’t exactly the best third date.”

“Americans. Greedy, the lot of you.”

I dropped my head back onto the pillow. Clearly, I wouldn’t receive any help from Yulia.

“I have to pee,” I deadpanned.

“Congratulations.”

“Fine.” I shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not like I have to do the laundry around here.”

Narrowed eyes met mine, and I held them in challenge. After a stare-off that lasted longer than anyone sane would be comfortable with, Yulia moved to the bed and untied my wrists with the quick type of skill that conveyed this wasn’t her first time dealing with ropes or pets.

When I was free, I stared at my expression in the bathroom mirror. I looked like the college girl in a gory horror film who got killed first by a chainsaw. Considering the stupidity that got me into this situation . . . how apt a comparison. My stomach grew queasy, so I turned the shower to hot, stripped, and stood under the spray of water.

Red swirled down the drain, and at the sight, cold prickles erupted on the back of my neck. The memory crashed into me like a tidal wave, snatched the beating heart from my chest, and let it sink to the depths of the Atlantic.

Holding Mr. Bunny by his droopy ear, I watched the shiny red car pull into the drive from my window. I’d only seen the woman a couple of times after Papa put me to bed and thought I was sleeping.

I frowned, remembering the day before, when I told the neighbor boy I didn’t have a mother. He looked at me like I was so dumb, and then, he said everyone had a mom, and if they didn’t, they were an orphan. I didn’t want to be an orphan.

This woman had long blonde hair, just like me.

Maybe she was my mother.

Suddenly, I felt very thirsty, and the glass Papa left near my bed wouldn’t do. The water was old, and it probably had dust in it.

Mr. Bunny in hand, I tiptoed down the stairs in my nightgown. Papa always said he had a sixth sense that would tell him when I wasn’t in bed like I was supposed to be, but only a four-year-old would believe that, and I turned five yesterday.

My tummy dipped when shouts drifted down the hall. Papa never raised his voice. He must be very angry. I drifted toward the sounds and stopped in front of the closed library door.

Bang!

My heart jumped. I leapt back, and Mr. Bunny slipped from my fingers.

Then, it went silent.

Red paint leaked from beneath the door, soaking my favorite stuffed animal. He was mine, and now he was ruined. I scooped him up while a sob worked its way up my throat. Warm paint stained my hands and nightgown. It was a mess, and now I’d have to take a bath. Everything was ruined.

The library door opened. Papa said a bad word and blocked the doorway with his body, but I could see his friend asleep on the floor with long blonde hair and red paint all over her.

Closing the door, Papa picked me up, my cheeks wet with tears.

“Mr. Bunny is ruined,” I cried.

“We’ll fix him up.”

I sniffled, tears slowing, and whispered, “I’m thirsty.”

“You have water beside your bed.”

“It has amoebas in it.” I was going through a Bo phase from Signs.

“You don’t know what those are.”

He forced me to take a bath and combed conditioner through my hair. If he didn’t, my curls got too tangled, and they hurt to brush out.

“Papa, your friend . . . is she my mother?”

His gaze softened. “No, angel.”

My eyes grew heavy as he scooped me up in a towel. And the last image I had before sleep took me under, was red paint running down the drain . . .

I slid down the shower wall, numbness pervading every cell within me. I’d like to believe my mind had pushed the memory so deep it’d never see the light of day in an act of self-preservation, but that was a lie. Subconsciously, I always knew something wasn’t right, that things weren’t as sparkly as they seemed, and I smothered the guilt of ignoring the truth by living an altruistic life. Although, with the knowledge in front of my face, I couldn’t live in blissful ignorance anymore.

My papa may be a good father.

But he was not a good man.

Even now, I didn’t know what to do. In this world, everything was twisted and upside down, and as the numbness faded, uncertainty of where my loyalties should lie tore at me.

Picking myself up off the floor, I wrapped a towel around me and exited the bathroom, taking a step back before I ran into Yulia. Without further ado, she shoved my cheer bag into my arms.

“Dress. Then you come down to breakfast.”

I hesitated, looking at the bag that felt foreign in my arms. A week in this house, and my past was a distant memory. I’d wanted out of this room, but today I wasn’t so sure about anything.

“It was not request,” Yulia snapped impatiently.

“And if I don’t?” Casting a meaningful glance at her small frame that was easily five inches shorter than mine, I asked, “Are you going to carry me out?”

Her expression hardened, and with a humph, she turned on her heel to the door, steps filled with purpose. She was going to tell on me, and the last thing I wanted this morning was to be manhandled by an oversized psychopath.

“I’m going,” I growled.

She paused, and then, slowly, she turned to me with a triumphant smile.

“Evil woman,” I said under my breath, only to hear a returned, “Brat.”

Refusing to allow her to drag me down to an eight-year-old’s level, I ignored the insult and dug through my bag like it might hold the key to escaping this place—though, unfortunately, all it contained was a pile of bright, messy clothes.

I hadn’t gone this long without shaving since I was thirteen, but wearing pants to conceal it felt like Ronan would be winning an unsaid battle. I didn’t care what he thought of my appearance, and if it turned him off—even better. I slipped on a flowy off-the-shoulder bohemian dress and inhaled a breath for the confidence I would need to traverse the devil’s lair.

With bare feet, I followed Yulia down the hall, throat tightening as I passed the spot the guard fell. A lemon scent lingered in the air, and the floor sparkled like it was polished. I wondered if Yulia spent her morning knee-deep in bloody paper towels.

As we made our way downstairs, I took in my surroundings. The home’s decor was grand, with tall ceilings, white crown molding, and marble floors. However, the Persian rugs, dark curtains, and mismatched furniture gave it a warm and masculine feel. If it wasn’t my prison cell, I could almost say it was comfortable.

Ronan sat at the end of the long table in the dining room. He reclined in his high-back chair like a king, eyes as dark as his soul. Like some twisted version of Narnia, I was sure, if I stepped into his wardrobe, it would lead me straight to hell.

I stopped at the other end of the table with every intention of sitting as far from him as I could manage, though, with a cool gaze, Ronan pushed out the chair next to him with his foot.

What a grand gentleman.

I’d rather try the two-story jump from my window than sit next to him, but pride wouldn’t allow me to reveal the shake in my veins. So I moved toward him like I did it every day; like he didn’t shoot a man in the head in the same room days ago. I sat, the only sounds the soft scrape of my chair against the marble and Ronan’s intrusive presence.

A dark-haired girl close to my age entered the room and quietly set fine china dishes on the table in front of us. Bliny. Russian pancakes served with fresh jam—my favorite meal Borya prepared at home in vegan fashion.

My stomach churned at the idea of forcing it down, but I would try. I wouldn’t survive in this world if I couldn’t adjust, and I refused to let it eat me alive.

I forked a blin and dropped it onto my plate. Ronan only sat back in his chair, the sparkle of my earring twirling between his fingers while he watched me add jam to the top. Cutting into a pancake, I halted when he still didn’t move.

“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.