CHAPTER Forty Joo nefelibata (n.) one who lives in the clouds of their own imagination Wla, The sun sumeD, CASTING A bright sheen behind my closed eyes, and rolled me in the soft warmth of heaven. Though the soreness between my thighs was the embodiment of Satan’s harem itself. I opened my eyes to find myself alone in D’yavol’s bed. I stared at the ceiling while the memory of yesterday returned with a vengeance. I didn’t think Ronan noticed my mini-meltdown in the shower—or maybe he did, and that was why he took the initiative to wash me himself. My hair, my body . . . but not my conscience. My mind worked backward, the memory hitting rewind from the moment I came, my head thrown back, beneath the spray of the shower. Each thrust had slid me up the shower wall, my thighs wrapped around his hips. Heavy breaths and Russian words. Stars on his shoulders. Stars in my eyes. I’d dropped to my feet, spun around, and rose to my tiptoes. He slid inside me from behind. My forehead rolled against the wall, my fingers sliding down the stone. His hand on my throat; his lips at my ear. “Moya. Vse moya.” Mine. All mine. Inked fingers braced on the wall beside my own. Suds and skin and a raven called Nevermore. My chest held a brittle paper heart knowing, soon, this man would slip through my fingers like another lost Lenore . . . I returned to the present, my arms spread on black sheets like a snow angel’s, before I was again sucked back to yesterday.