X I fell into bed over two hours later in my bloody pants and boots. Kirill told me the wound would heal fine after shoving some antibiotics in my hand. He was pretty confident the bullet had missed bone, only tearing through muscle. How narcissistic I got once again. I’d normally be enjoying two fingers of vodka and a cigar after this day, though now all I could see was the heartbroken look on Mila’s face. The need to go to her room tore at me, but I quelled the impulse. I’d already apologized to her once; I didn’t have another in me. Not to mention, it was futile to do so now, thirty hours before I murdered her papa. I was sure she wouldn’t welcome me anyway, and I’d never begged for a thing in my life—not even as a kid living on the streets. I simply took what I wanted. Unfortunately, Mila wasn’t a handful of rubles or a loaf of bread. She just had to have feelings and some kind of voodoo power over me that wouldn’t let me hurt her—apparently, even emotionally. Pd never beg. But this was the first time I’d wanted to. I fell asleep to the thought of seeing Mila on the streets. I simply picked her up and carried her home to my Russian fortress, where I hand-fed her pomegranate seeds so she’d never be able to leave. It was slight movement on the mattress that woke me. Again, I knew who it was. The pressure in my chest released when Mila slid into bed beside me and rested an arm on my chest and her head on my shoulder. My perfect little martyr, lying in her father’s executioner’s arms. I had a job to do, and she was the chess piece needed to win. The problem was .. . I didn’t think I could ever play her. OceanofPDE:.com