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“So a solid year ago then?” “Of course not,” I said, like he was completely off the mark. “A year and a half.” He smiled. “Ah, my mistake.”
Ivory and tan skin. French-tipped nails and tattoos. Soft and rough.
“Moy kotyonok.” I ran a thumb across her parted lips. “I told you this city would eat you alive.” I just didn’t tell her I owned Moscow and everything in it.
She had a soft heart. I didn’t want to destroy it. I wanted it in the palm of my hand.
“Ow,” I complained, rubbing my forehead. She snickered. “Witch,” I groused. “Bitch.”
“You poisoned me.” One of his “fucks” hit my ears before he shot out of his chair and caught me by the waist just as my legs gave out. With my back to his chest, he shoved two fingers down my throat. I gagged on them, then threw up on his hand and the marble floor. He did it again, and again, until nothing else came up, and I begged him to stop.
“Don’t worry, kotyonok . . .” He leaned in and nuzzled my neck, his warm breath raising goose bumps on my skin. “Ya vyyebu vsyu lozh iz tebya.”
Moonlight played across her body as if it loved her.
The moonlight loved her. But not as much as my shadows. “Ti slishkom ideal’naya chto bi byt’ nastoyashchey.”
“You pull a trigger on me, and I can’t even leave you out in the cold for fifteen fucking minutes. So you tell me, Mila, who cares more here?”
“Am I that easy to leave, kotyonok?”
“But be careful. One of them might end up meaning something to you.” The words seared like acid on my tongue. He watched me for a second. “Ya dumayu uzhe slishkom pozdno dlya etogo.”
“Two have touched me . . . that way.” He made a rough noise. “Dvoye mertvetsov.” Two dead men.
The hair was yellow. And these days, the color made my chest feel ridiculously tight. The sensation was karma.
An uncomfortable edge slid through me when I realized Mila wouldn’t care if I was penniless.
Tear-stained cheeks. Glistening eyes. Legs I would die for. She was so beautiful, the sight punched me in the gut. A train car had exploded like a scene in an action movie, but when pills dropped from the sky, all I saw was the memory of Mila dressed in yellow, standing on cracked pavement catching snowflakes in her hand.
The knowledge was difficult to admit to myself, but I liked this girl an indecent amount. I liked her in my home—even with all the mud she dragged in. I liked her full attention and smart mouth. But what I really liked was her heart—the pliable organ in her chest I could mold to fit my hand like Play-Doh. Her tears, her trusting eyes, her fucking existence—all of it made it impossible to imagine her walking away from me while I watched from a distance, my palm containing a remnant of sticky yellow Play-Doh I’d never be able to wash off.
Now, she was moy kotyonok because she was sickly sweet until she bared her claws.
She glanced up at me. Her eyes were a window to her soul. I suddenly knew, if I ever died, those eyes would have something to do with it. Somehow, it sounded acceptable to me.
I wasn’t being demanding, so I must be sick? Jesus Christ.
I made a rough sound through my teeth, every cell in me on fire with satisfaction and . . . something else.
“Now sit on my face.” Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t do that to get something in return. This . . . was just for you.” I smiled. She was cute. My perfect little martyr. But she had something wrong. She squealed when I grabbed her thighs and pulled her to straddle my face. “This is for me,”
I’d never beg. But this was the first time I’d wanted to.
“Did I hurt you?” I shook my head. “I don’t mean just physically, Mila.”
“Prosnis’, Mila.” Wake up. “Goddammit, prosnis’.”
“Ona ne spit,” he exhaled roughly. “Fuck. Ona ne spit.”
“Zachem ty eto sdelala?” he gritted. “Zachem?”
“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?” I didn’t understand, so I shook my head. “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.” A tear ran down my cheek as a coldness
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“If you die, Mila,” he said harshly, “I’ll send Khaos to a back-alley pound.” My heart beat. “You wouldn’t.”
“Yesli ona umret, ty tozhe umresh’,”
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.”
“I loved Gianna for years before she ever even looked at me. Love isn’t hearts and flowers. Sometimes, it fucking sucks.”
“Kak moya zhena.” As my wife.
“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.”
“Ya lyublyu tebya.” He made a noise of satisfaction. “Ya byl tyoim pervym I ya budu tvoim poslednim.” I was your first, and I will be your last.
“Ronan . . . did Moscow get an Eiffel Tower of its own recently?” “I would never allow that kind of romantic tourism in my city.”
“Ty byla sozdana dlya menya.” You were made for me. I believed it with everything in me. “Dazhe ocean ne mog razdelit’ nas,” I breathed beneath the possessive pressure of his thumb on my lips. Even the sea couldn’t keep us apart. He smiled. “Not even hell, kotyonok.” That night, I got married in Paris with a raven on my finger. Though, in my heart, I knew this man had never been my Nevermore. He was my forever.
