The Darkest Temptation (Made, #3)

by Danielle Lori

Ronan would forget me eventually. And that felt like the biggest rejection of all, searing the very core of my heart. Stinging pride was what forced the next words out. “At least Carter doesn’t murder people for a living.” Ronan made an unamused noise, practically baring his teeth at me. “Fuck you, Mila.” I bristled. “Fuck you! And fuck your decency too. I’m so over it.”

“Malen’kaya lgunishka . . . fucking engaged.” The words sounded like a curse, but a subtle note in his voice reached my heart, tugging at each frayed edge. Beneath his fury, a hint of vulnerability lay. I’d found another weakness. He was weak when he was left behind.

Ronan went still for a second before slowly tilting my head up so he could see my reflection. A smudged mirror. Red-tinted tears streaked paths through the dried blood on my face. Inked fingers collared my throat. “Fuck.” He pulled out of me, turned me around, and framed my face with his hands. “Did I hurt you?” I shook my head. “I don’t mean just physically, Mila.”

“Ivan hates me now . . .” It went silent for a second, but he waited for me to continue, somehow knowing there was more. “I always wanted family . . . siblings.” My voice was thick with emotion. “And it sounds like they hate me too.” A single tear escaped. Ronan tipped my chin to meet his eyes, brushing away the tear with a thumb. “Lions don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.”

I loved his black and his gray and every shade in between. I loved him so much it was embedded in my skin. I loved him, and even knowing I would lose him, it felt like my heart would simply stop if I didn’t tell him.

With an exhale, I opened my mouth, but it slowly closed by what I saw in his eyes—or rather, what he saw in mine. His softness evaporated, and the cool, insensitive D’yavol returned. Without a word, he walked away, leaving me wet, cold, and drowning beneath the heavy weight of rejection.

I guessed sparks came from passion. Even ones that eventually destroyed you. The mirror shattered with one strike of my hand. It pinged like untuned music notes as I walked out of the room.

She frowned. “Obviously, the staff feels bad for you . . . Just think of the hassle your diet must put on poor Polina. She is getting older and . . . larger every day.” Nadia shot a glance at Gianna’s belly. “No offense, of course.” “Mamma isn’t fat!” Kat yelled before anyone else could get a word in. “She’s growing my brother. And you’re rude!”

Ronan turned me to face him and wiped some porridge from my cheek. I couldn’t do this. I just couldn’t. Though trying to pull free from his grip turned out to be as futile as always. “Tell me you are okay,” he demanded. “I’m okay. Now, please . . . let me go.” It looked like he was about to deny the request, but something in my eyes must have changed his mind. He tipped up my chin and gave me a short, sweet kiss on the lips—ignoring Nadia’s outraged, “ARGH!”—before he let me slip through his fingers.

“Because you’re so sweet you fucking glow.” His eyes darkened. “And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take that light from you.”

but right now . . .” His lips ran up my throat. “Ty mne nuzhna.” I need you. The deep rasp brushed my skin, burned my heart, and made the decision for me. I arched my neck to allow him more access, giving him what he needed even knowing he would be the one to destroy me.

Before he could open the door, the heartache escaped my lips with a desperate breath. “Proshchay.” The word sounded soft, but its meaning held a poignant note. It meant goodbye forever.

“Aren’t you going to say it too?” “Nyet.” The reply was so cold, its ice burned the backs of my eyes, sending a single tear down my cheek. It wasn’t until he watched it fall that I noticed the tightness in his shoulders; the turmoil he hid so well behind Giovanni. A rough thumb wiped the tear away. “Ya ne govoryu togo, chego ne imeyu v vidu.”

Ronan grabbed me and cradled my head against the falling shrapnel. The smoke cleared just enough to see my papa and the silver glint of a pistol aimed at Ronan’s back. “NO,” tore through my body. I could handle mourning so much. But not Ronan.

Never Ronan. My heart made the decision for me. I shoved him away from me just as a pop sounded. Then everything went silent. The smoke drifted away. Shrapnel stopped falling. This world wasn’t spinning. It was cold, quiet, and so very dark.

“Prosnis’, Mila.” Wake up. “Goddammit, prosnis’.” Ronan had demanded so much from me since we met—so many orders he was confident would be met—but this request held a vulnerable crack. It wasn’t a demand at all. It was a need. I found another weakness. He was weak for me.

When Ronan opened his eyes, they pinned me with fury. “Zachem ty eto sdelala?” he gritted. “Zachem?” “English,” I said softly. “Why the fuck would you do that, Mila?” he growled with a deep rasp. “WHY?” “You’re not immortal,” I whispered, my throat thick. “I didn’t want you to die.” He stared at me with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and something else indiscernible. “You don’t get to sacrifice yourself for me.” He clenched his teeth. “You DON’T get to die for me, kotyonok.” His eyes crucified me. “If anyone dies between us, it will be ME. Do you understand?”

“Then let me make it clear for you,” he said, the shadows in his eyes flashing. “You would survive without me. You would move on.” His tone roughened. “I can’t imagine a world where you and all your fucking yellow doesn’t exist. So if you die, you’ll take me with you. Your sacrifice would mean nothing, kotyonok. NOTHING.”

“I’m so cold, Ronan . . .” My eyes felt weighted down, so I closed them. “Nyet,” Ronan growled, grabbing my face. “Don’t fucking close your eyes.” “I’m so tired,” I whispered, lethargy pulling at every muscle in my body. “I don’t think . . .” “If you die, Mila,” he said harshly, “I’ll send Khaos to a back-alley pound.” My heart beat. “You wouldn’t.” “I would.”

“Don’t do that to Khaos,” I pleaded weakly, interrupting the medical staff. “Don’t die, and I won’t,” he responded while following the doctors down the hall.

How could I choose not to die? Today might be my day, and even D’yavol couldn’t stop fate in its tracks. I may have never gotten the family or love I’d always wanted, but at least I could say I gave it my best shot.

Ronan lay me on a gurney, and a nurse rushed me into an OR room. When a surgeon tried to stop Ronan from entering, he pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the doctor’s head. “Yesli ona umret, ty tozhe umresh’,” he growled. If she dies, you die too.

The gas started to pull my consciousness down, down . . . Though when I met Ronan’s eyes, I knew what I needed to say. Ya lyublyu tebya. I love you. In the end, only one word escaped with the fear I’d never wake up.

“Proshchay . . .” The last thing I heard before the anesthesia took me under was, “Fuck your proshchay, Mila.”

My gaze slid to Ronan, who sat beside my bed wearing Tom Ford and tired eyes. Silently, he watched me. I somehow knew he’d stayed by my side for as long as I was unconscious. This man I once hated had become the man I loved. Ronan was wrong. I couldn’t bear the thought of living without him.

It terrified me, this love that threatened dependence. The devotion was a bright glow that warmed my soul, though it also left me feeling vulnerable, as if my chest would simply tear open if I loved him anymore.

I didn’t regret taking that bullet for Ronan, but the fact I’d almost died forced me to look at life from a different perspective. The truth was, I hadn’t truly lived yet. I’d experienced nothing besides the view of closed golden gates, the inside of a Russian mansion,...

The fact I was about to hit one of Ronan’s weaknesses made me want to throw up. He was the strongest man I’d ever met, and still, I couldn’t stand the idea of hurting him.

“Why did you do it?” I blurted. He paused, his body tensing. He knew I wanted to know why he killed my mother. His hesitation created a heavy silence in the room, like he wasn’t sure if he should tell me the truth. In the end, I knew he did. “She was pregnant with another man’s child.”

“So if revenge isn’t on your mind right now, then what is?” “I’m waiting.” I glanced at him. “For what?” His eyes narrowed. “For the speech of forgiveness, ‘but it’s probably best if we part ways.’”

Ronan paused in the doorway for a second. He turned his head to meet my eyes and promised, “This isn’t proshchay.”

It wasn’t proshchay. Just as I pulled out the IV, the chaotic energy inside faded, leaving me so drained I could only cover my mouth as tears poured down my cheeks. I ignored the sharp throb in my stomach. A machine began to beep, alerting me to the fact a nurse would be in here soon, but I didn’t expect a dog. Khaos jumped on the bed and lay down beside me. Sobbing, I ran my hand through his fur, hugged him tight, and said, “It isn’t proshchay . . .”

I didn’t know how to get rid of this irritable, edgy sensation beneath my skin besides violence—and even that didn’t release the tight, hollow ache in my chest. It felt like she was stealing something from me. Pain I could stand. Robbery I could not.

Staring into his tumbler glass, he swirled the vodka in his glass. “I loved Gianna for years before she ever even looked at me. Love isn’t hearts and flowers. Sometimes, it fucking sucks.” “You’re really selling this to me,” I said drily. “I don’t have to sell it. You’ve already gone and fallen for Alexei Mikhailov’s daughter.” I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t.

“I know you blame yourself for what happened to me.” The silence was heavy. “You feel so guilty over that shit you can’t let yourself care for other people—because if you couldn’t protect your own brother, why should you deserve any other meaningful relationships? Well, you need to get the fuck over it.”

All that random stuff that came out of my mouth when I thought she could die was true. I’d fought death more times than I could count, but I knew I’d welcome it if it ever came down between me or her. I’d warned her about being selfless, and now it seemed I was practically sacrificial in regard to her.

The sickly-sweet girl with a soft heart and love of yellow had somehow filled a blank space inside me. And I couldn’t handle the thought of her anywhere else but with me. Pros: My crystal glasses were safe. Cons: It might really be unrequited.

I didn’t exactly have his daughter . . . though he must assume she’d chosen my side by taking that bullet for me. The thought brought me back to the second I noticed what she’d done, and my chest tightened. If she would have died and taken all her sunshine with her . . . fuck. The idea made me sick and made me see red at the same time.

I realized Mila might need some space. I didn’t like the idea—in fact, every cell demanded I drag her back to my bed where she belonged just to know she was mine. But I had to work with kidnapping the girl, threatening to kill her papa, and a slew of other serious offenses. I could be patient when I really wanted something. But I didn’t want her; I needed her. If this was what they called “love,” then I’d own it. I never did anything half-ass.

The second day, the boy delivered a new laptop loaded with every season of Forensic Files and another note. If you want to know how to kill someone and get away with it, you only need to ask. —Ronan

The third day, the boy delivered Pacifica shampoo and body wash, and, of course, a note. Stop arguing with the nurses. —Ronan

The fifth day, the boy delivered another package. Déjà vu raised goose bumps on my arms when I opened the box. It contained another lemon-yellow faux fur coat with “Kotyonok” stitched on the collar. Get it dirty. But NEVER again with blood. —Ronan

pressed my nose in the fur, hoping—needing—it to smell like Ronan. It didn’t. And as the ache in my chest rose to burn my eyes, Khaos nudged me with his head. I cuddled up beside him and whispered to him and another who couldn’t hear, “Ya lyublyu tebya.” I love you.

The sixth day, the boy delivered a new iPhone, my passport, ID, an obscene amount of cash, and a plane ticket to Miami that left the next day. My hands shook as I picked up the note and read it. A single tear fell, smearing the ink. This ISN’T proshchay. —Ronan

“I want to know what my purpose is in life.” She raised a brow as if she found the question entirely bland, picked a card from the top of the deck, and set it faceup on the table. I stared at it, my stomach on the floor. The Devil.

“Maybe we should move up north where it’s cooler. What about New York?” Khaos didn’t look impressed. “Chicago?” I asked him while shutting the door behind us. “Or Aspen?” “What about Moscow?” The familiar Russian accent slid down my spine and shook the beat of my heart.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his hand trembling when he slid it into my hair and cradled the back of my head. “Ya skuchal po tebe.” I missed you. “Ya tozhe skuchala po tebe,” I breathed through tears before pulling back to see his face. I missed you too. “Your Russian has gotten better.” “I’ve been studying.” Hoping. Dreaming.

“That’ll help,” he said coarsely. “Why?” I asked, my tears abating. “Because you’re coming home with me.” I raised a brow. “As your captive?” That villainous look so akin to him touched his eyes, and then he said three words that stopped my heart dead in its tracks. “Kak moya zhena.” As my wife.

“Wow,” I finally managed, pulling my gaze back to Ronan’s. “That’s a massive leap. Usually, it goes captive, servant, despised acquaintance, seduced lover—” “Those all sound great,” he cut me off, “but I’ve had four months”—his eyes darkened as if the time had been worse than prison—“to think about this, and I know what I want.” “And you want a wife,” I said slowly.

“I don’t know about this though . . . It’s crazy, Ronan.” He gripped my throat and tipped my head up to meet my eyes. “Ty svela menya s uma. I teper tebye nuzhno razbiratsa s posledstviyami.” You made me crazy. And now you have to deal with the consequences.