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“You’ll get what’s coming to you, D’yavol. And when you do, I’ll smile when they cover you with dirt.” Fuck. That was kind of hot. And annoying. I gripped her face. “If I go down, I’ll take you with me. Your Mikhailov blood will keep me cool in hell.”
I wanted her to need me; to beg, live, and breathe just for me.
In this world, things weren’t black and white. I preferred yellow anyway.
I didn’t want to be the kind of person who hurt others just because they hurt me. Something inside of me hated the idea of hurting him more than anything, even though nobody deserved it more.
He liked me. Every yellow, rebellious, heart-on-my-sleeve inch of me.
It was strange to see this man at his most vulnerable. Did he dream? And if he did, was it filled with blood and murder? We might not see each other ever again shortly, but a part of me hoped I’d leave him to dream of yellow.
“This is getting too close to a Nicholas Sparks movie for me, kotyonok. I just wanted to convince you to let me fuck you again.” “I’m an emotional fuck,” I replied. “Get over it.”
Stars on his shoulders. Stars in my eyes.
“It’s called Stockholm syndrome. What’s your excuse? Mobster Decency Disorder?”
“Fine. But shut the door. My brother and his family are still here. And your dog is a nutcase.” “You’re a nutcase.” “You were the one involved in a porridge catfight downstairs.” “She pulled my hair,” I explained simply and shut the door behind me. His eyes darkened. “That won’t ever happen again. Nobody pulls your hair except me.”
I love them.
I knew then I’d follow this man to the fiery gates of hell if he just held my hand.
