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  There's a knock on the door before it opens and one of the servants enters the room, placing a silver tray on the table beside the fireplace. On it, a bottle of vodka and a bottle brandy, and two glasses to toast to our final night together.

  Smiling, I grab the bottle of vodka and pour my sweet little kitty a drink. "You need something to take the edge off," I say, handing the glass to her.

  She takes it, her eyes locking with mine as she lifts it to her lips. There's a split-second where my fingers twitch and I start to knock the glass from her hand. Before I can, she tips it back in one gulp. My heart gallops in my chest like a raging stallion, sending a sudden chill down my spine. Weakness. It is but weakness.

  "Thanks," she says, setting the glass on the mantel piece.

  Without a word, I grab her by the arms and slam her against the wall in a brutal kiss. Her warm lips are so perfect beneath mine, but the lingering taste of the vodka serves as a solemn reminder of what is to come. "You make me weak, krasivaya," I breath against her mouth.

  Her fingers trail along my jaw, her rapid breaths caressing my lips. "Nothing could make you weak, Russian." The brush of her tongue against my own makes me groan.

  "Nothing but you."

  She grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks the material apart sending buttons scattering over the thick rug while her lips sweep along my throat. "Show me," she breathes.

  "So weak... That I don't even need your blood." I kiss down her chest as I take the top of her dress and pull.

  She shoves the waist of my pants down, her fingers gripping me. And with that, I shred the thin cotton down the middle, ripping every last piece of clothing from her body before I throw her down on the bed. Camilla is waiting for me with her legs spread, and there my little kitty is, so certain. So very sure. A queen on her thrown of sexual prowess. Mine for the taking...

  Thoughts of hurting her, fucking her swirl through my mind, but I know that to all symphonies there must be that one overture, that one movement that chokes out expression from even the most hardened of hearts. A Magnus Opus...

  I slowly lower myself down over her, relishing in the delicate heat of her skin against mine. Her breaths rise in uneven swells and I wonder if the poison is already working. Another twinge of something—loss, guilt—fires through me like angry venom, but I sweep it from my mind and lie down between her legs, placing my lips against her. The sweet taste when I dip my tongue inside her is nearly too much. I find my fingers digging into her thighs, my mouth growing desperate for more. She claws at my hair, moaning and panting, and just when I bring her to the precipice of release, I stop.

  "Ronan," she pleads.

  I move over her, settling between her thighs. My nostrils flare as I trail my fingers along her jaw. I want to etch the memory of her face into my mind forever so I will always remember when I was almost brought to my knees. I'd be a liar if I denied that I love her. Within all my depravity, there is a subtle hint of humanity left, and that is what she has claimed, and when she dies, she'll take it with her. "Camilla Estrada," I say, as I slowly slide inside her, "you are the woman who finally broke me."

  Her nails cut into my shoulders as though she's trying to ground herself by clinging onto me. Her forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling as though we were one. "You are both my salvation and my destruction, Ronan."

  And I doubt she knows how very true that is.

  I force myself deeper inside of her, closing my eyes to feel every inch. There's a moment when the weight of it all bares down on me like some unseen force. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, kissing, inhaling the scent of hibiscus that is forever clinging to her skin. If only we could have existed this way with each other... but two predators can never stop circling one another. I kiss her again. I can certainly see the allure of love. It's like a drug, sickeningly sweet. One I'd have welcomed death for if I'd allowed myself to fall any further.

  Her back bows from the bed, and I hold her as we both unravel together in a tangle of body and moans. She knows this will not last, I feel it. We are two souls desperately trying to express the inexpressible within this final act. But, for me, it's not enough.

  She lies panting underneath me and I move my face inches from hers. "I love you, krasivaya, and, I promise you," I brush my finger over her lip, "you are the only woman who will ever hear those words." I roll off her and pull her to my chest.

  Her eyes meet mine with a glimmer of pain before she squeezes them closed. "I love you," she breathes.

  I hold her close, stroking over her dark hair until she falls asleep, but sleep evades me. I rise, going to sit by the fireplace. I drink and I drink until the bottle of brandy is empty, and I watch her. Waiting.

  Every time her chest fails to rise, my chest tightens. My heart pounds. And then she takes a breath and relief washes over me even though I know it's only momentary. Her fate has been sealed. I take the last sip of brandy, my vision doubling as I stare straight ahead. Is it possible that killing her may cause more pain than having let her live?

  I drag my hand over my face. I've poisoned the woman I love in an effort to save myself—but really, I believe subconsciously it was to save her from me. Should I really feel guilt when death awaits us all, for isn't it much more poetic to be killed slowly at the hands of a man terrified he'd never love you enough than die alone?

  I could go with her... I glance at the bottle of vodka, my vision doubling as I stroke my fingers over its smooth curve, accidentally knocking it to the ground. The glass shatters, the vodka soaks into the wooden floorboards, and now I'm left with no other choice. I stagger to the bed and crawl in beside her, wrapping my arm around her waist and holding her close. "I love you, krasivaya. So much so I had to kill you."

  19

  Camilla

  I woke with a start, and ever since then, I've been lying here with his arms around me, trying not to think about how safe and cherished he makes me feel. His warm breath caresses the back of my neck, deep and even in sleep. The scent of brandy invades my senses and I can only hope that he's drunk. I need to move. I need to go while I still can, while I still have a shred of strength against this...this morbid love I feel for him.

  I pull out of his arms and sit up, carefully opening the bedside drawer and searching for the knife he keeps there to cut me with. My hand brushes the handle. I grab it then turn over to face him. He's lying on his back, his beautiful face pinched and troubled in sleep. I wonder if he senses something wrong from his dream world, if he feels the impending betrayal. My heart lets out several staggered beats as though it's physically breaking. Maybe it is. Ronan Cole is the devil and he has claimed my soul. He's the only man who has ever protected me, but I don't need it and I shouldn't crave it. I'm Camilla Estrada, and he is the difference between the woman I should be and a woman who would betray her own brother. He says I make him weak, that I am like fire—but he reduces me to ash. He doesn't just make me weak, he makes me want to sacrifice everything for him, including myself. He's my own worst nightmare disguised as a dark and bloodied fairytale. And yet I crave him with a need that grips me to my very core. My soul feels as though it's tearing itself in two. I have to kill him. I know I do. This was always the plan. He was always to be my victim, slain at the hands of the whore in his bed.

  I stare at his face, committing every perfect detail to memory before I lift a shaking hand and place the blade to his throat. Pausing, I press my lips against his. His breath hitches and his hand instinctively slides over my waist, pulling me closer. Tears track down my cheeks, sealing our kiss. "I love you," I whisper against his mouth, and then I yank the blade over his throat while a desperate sob breaks through my lips. His eyes flash open at the same time as his hands go to his throat. I climb off the bed, watching his blood spill over the sheets, watching him struggle, knocking things off the bedside table.

  "I'm sorry," I choke, grabbing a coat and throwing the door open.

  I stagger from Ronan's room with his blood coating my hands. A ch
oked breath breaks from my lips and my chest feels as though it's physically breaking open. God, what is this?

  Clutching my chest, I stumble down the stairs and hurry through the house. I find my way to the garage and fumble with the sets of keys on the wall before pressing a key fob. A Range Rover chirps and the indicators flash. I run over to the car and get in, adrenaline firing through my veins as I start the engine. There's a remote for the garage door in the center console. I press it and the garage door lifts, revealing the bright, white snow glowing against the darkness of the night sky. I slam the accelerator to the floor and the car dashes forward, tires squealing as it peels out of the garage.

  Everything around me passes in a blur. My body moves of its own violation without conscious thought. All I can think about is Ronan, his lips against mine before my blade opened his throat. Lust and hate, enemies and lovers—that has always been us. How many times have I told myself that I hate him? That I'm going to kill him? And yet now, I feel no sense of triumph, only emptiness. Like something inside me is suddenly missing. I fell in love with a monster, so I killed him.

  My fingers tighten on the steering wheel and I clench my jaw, forcing all these wild emotions down. My loyalty is to my family now, my brother, my cartel, and my home. Being in Russia was all a situation of circumstance, something I should always have fought.

  I brace myself as I send the car firing toward the front gate. Ronan's guards scramble before diving out of the way as I drive straight through it. Metal screeches as the gates tear from their hinges. With a glance in the rearview mirror, I watch Ronan's mansion disappear. It's nothing but destruction that I'm leaving in my wake.

  When my heartrate slows and the adrenaline fades, my head begins to spin. My stomach grips and rolls violently and my vision spots. In a panic, I yank the car over to the side of the road where it crashes into the metal barrier. Throwing the door open, I lean over and vomit onto the icy road before climbing out. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

  I stumble down an embankment that leads from the car into the forest. I'm burning up. The trees split in two in front of me. There's a sharp pain in my temples. Weakness overtakes me and I collapse into the deep snow. I should move, but I can't manage to even lift my head, and then everything goes black.

  20

  Ronan

  Warm blood spurts between my fingers as I clutch at my throat. I want to laugh at the irony.

  I swat around on the nightstand, my fingers trailing underneath the lip until it hits the small panic button. I press it over and over, then roll onto my side so I don't choke on the blood. Although I'm in immense pain, I smile. How perfect she and I are for each other. How tragic that we may, in fact, die together.

  The glow from the fireplace dances on the wall like angry little demons. I watch the flicker, the shadows, and my mind wanders to Sofia, the thought of her dying. The way her eyes filled with remorse when she looked at me the last time—the same fogged over stare that Camilla had when she sliced the blade across my throat. What a brave little kitty, trying to kill me to save herself from the inevitable hell I would have dragged her down to. It's funny the things you think of when death is so close. With each passing second, I grow weaker. Colder. I'm almost certain there is a peace within death. A cold, hollow peace...

  The door slams against the wall. Donovan and Ivan rush over, shouting at the men in the hall. Donovan moves my hand away and applies pressure, yelling for the doctor. There's a flurry of panic and commotion. Shouting. Alarms. And here I lie, calm. Collected. Controlled.

  I bled for her, and while most may see this as an act of betrayal, I see it for what it is, a desperate bid to save oneself. Kill or be killed, be strong or be weak. She and I know no other way.

  ______

  When I come to, the late afternoon sun spills through the window. I shift uncomfortably in bed. The slightest of movements tugs at the stitches in my throat. "What time is it?" I ask, turning to Igor.

  "Four."

  "I assume my men went to look for her?" I imagine her lifeless in the snow right outside the gates.

  "Yes..."

  There's a long pause. "Well?"

  "They haven't found her," Igor says.

  "That's impossible," I say as I stare through the window at the blizzard of snow.

  "She took a car."

  "A car?" My brow wrinkles with curiosity. "I see."

  "It was wrecked not far from here, and there were tracks from the wreckage that led into the woods, but then they... stopped. Suddenly."

  Because she dropped dead. "She's out there." A flurry of snow blows past the window. "Probably buried under a snowdrift. Find her, Igor." I turn to glare at him. "I want her body."

  A grimace shapes Igor's face before he turns and leaves the room. I know she's out there somewhere. Lifeless and frozen, and while I may have killed her, I loved her immensely. And that is more evident now in her absence than I'd imagined possible. It's as though an energy has been sucked away from me. I want her buried, not left out for the wild animals to feast upon.

  I drift in and out of sleep with the help of morphine, and at nine o'clock sharp, one of the servants brings in a flat screen and hangs it on the wall. I watch as they hook everything up, annoyed that I have been deduced to watching television from my bed. It's unrefined to have such things in a bedroom, but given the current circumstances...

  The screen flickers to life and I'm handed the remote before the servants excuse themselves.

  Mundane news spills from the anchor's mouth and I'm nearly back asleep until—"Hundreds of agents and top officials have been suspended from the FBI pending an investigation with ties to Russian mafia members. The exact nature of the ties has yet to be disclosed. Temperatures drop as another snow storm..."

  My pulse accelerates as I stare at the images flashing on the screen of the cold winter storm surging through Moscow. The snake in the grass wasn’t Camilla. I must find him and cut off his head.

  21

  Camilla

  A warm, gentle breeze caresses my face. The wild scent of hibiscus swirls around me. Slowly, I open my eyes to a white gauze canopy billowing above me. I glance down at the cotton nightgown I'm wearing just as another puff of desert air blows through the open patio doors, catching the curtains and making them ripple in the fading sunlight. My body hums with familiarity, the kiss of hot, dry air on my skin, the steady chirping of cicadas in the distance. Home. I'm in my room in the villa.

  "Mila." I turn toward the door and find my brother leaning against the frame.

  "Gabe?"

  He slowly approaches the bed and takes a seat on the edge. "What the fuck happened?" he says, fear in his voice.

  "I..." I shake my head, frowning. "How did I get here?"

  "You mean to tell me the Lord of Narnia didn't send you through the fucking wardrobe?"

  The thought of Ronan sends pain lancing through my chest. My throat tightens. "He's dead," I whisper.

  Gabe lifts both brows. "Dead?"

  "I killed him and ran."

  A large grin shapes Gabe's face and he leans over, hugging me tightly. "I'm so proud of you, Mila."

  "Thanks," I mumble. "The last thing I remember, I was in the woods in Moscow. Something was wrong. I was ill."

  His brow wrinkles. "Two days ago, the guards saw a black SUV push you out into the ditch in front of the casa." He shrugs. "You were out of it, but fine other than that." He scratches over his chin. "Fucking strange..."

  "What the fuck?" A fissure of unease winds through me. Why would anyone take me from Russia and leave me outside Gabe's gate? It makes no sense. I don't have any friends in Russia, unless... I chew on my bottom lip. I did have one friend. Once. Back when we both had a mutual enemy in Ronan Cole and I was very much invested in his demise.

  "You're sure he's dead?"

  "I slit his throat, Gabriel. Not even the devil could survive that."

  He nods. "So, it was all to get close to the pale fuck?" He eyes me suspiciously. "Not bec
ause you had some sick, twisted form of Stockholm-syndrome or some shit?"

  I swallow hard and steel myself. "I did what I had to do, Gabriel."

  "Si..." He squeezes my foot through the sheet. "Well," he pushes up from the bed and crosses the room. "Maybe Don will stop being a dickfuck since you're home." He taps his hand over the doorframe and walks off.

  I throw the covers back and slide out of bed. "Let me grab a shower and we'll make a start," I say, walking to my ensuite. This is what I need, a distraction. Work. My cartel.

  I turn the taps, letting the water heat up as I strip out of my nightgown. Steam pours over the glass door and I step inside, relishing under the scalding spray. When my fingers brush the long scab that sits between my breasts, I close my eyes and I can still see the feral lust that swam in his eyes when he cut me. I can feel the primal craving, the want, the need to watch him cut me and fuck me in ways no other man ever will. My eyes prickle with unshed tears and I rest my forehead against the cold tile, taking a deep breath. He was my own beautiful form of madness and I killed him before he consumed me. Reasoning with myself makes it hurt no less, and the idea of right and wrong does not make this love any less real. I turn my face into the water to disguise the tears as they slip free, as I let myself cry over the man I loved for a few minutes. Then I take every shred of weak emotion that I have and shove it in a box in the very recesses of my soul. From the ashes of Ronan Cole, I will rise, his lessons in power firmly embedded in my mind and his loss reminding me never again to lose myself in a powerful man.