the dark where childhood monsters lay, leaving a coldness to spread within like spiderwebs of frost. I covered my bare breasts with the sheet and sat up on the bed. Ronan’s dark gaze lifted to mine. He didn’t look tired, but something told me he was used to sleepless nights. “Kirill came to see you already,” he said. “You slept through it.” I found the fact he sent for a doctor slightly interesting—nothing more. Not seeing my clothes anywhere, I wrapped the sheet around me and stood. “You didn’t need to bother him again but thank you.” “Thank you,” he repeated drily as if he couldn’t decide whether he was annoyed by the words or simply didn’t understand them. “Spasibo.” I translated it to Russian for him and padded to the door, the black sheet trailing behind me like a woman in virginal mourning. “I know what you fucking said,” he grated. “And I didn’t say you could go.” Obediently, I stopped in the doorway and turned to him, welcoming the numb sensation within. Ronan could move me around like one of Yulia’s dolls right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. My compliance was what he’d wanted all this time, yet by the hard glitter in his eyes, it seemed he still wasn’t happy. As he stood and strode toward me, I coasted my stare to the corner of the room—mostly because looking at him shook the composure inside. Like a splatter of paint on a white canvas. “How do you feel?” “Hungry,” I said simply. Ronan made an impatient noise, now standing within arm’s reach, and demanded, “Your eyes, Mila.” I pulled my gaze to his but stared through him. His attention warmed my face, the irritation in the air intensifying with each tick of silence. Then he reached up and ran a thumb across my cheek. “No tears for me this morning?” “Do you wish for my tears?” My tone conveyed I would muster up a few if he did. His jaw tightened. An angry sound rose in his throat, then he pushed my face away and turned his back to me. “May I go now?”