A tremble rocked me at my core, and I grabbed the sheet Yulia was pulling away for something to hold onto. “I’m not going down there.” Eyes narrowed, she tugged on the other end of the sheet. “Da, ty poydesh.” Yes, you are. I tugged back. “Nyet, ya ne poydu.” No, I’m not. Her glare intensified. “Get up. You have already made them wait long enough.” Them? The single word ravaged my body and soul, and the sheet slipped from my fingers. Yulia pulled it away, her expression smug with triumph, though her gloating was soon lost beneath the dread that poured in. Maybe Ronan wouldn’t just kill me. Maybe he’d pass me around to all of his men first. I felt sick. So sick, I was unable to move. My breathing accelerated; chest squeezed tight. The panic raged a storm within me, and I was on the verge of losing this horrid reality to darkness, but the winded sensation paused when Yulia set a silky piece of fabric on the bed. I stared at it. It was a white, modest dress—one that looked long enough to reach the floor even on my tall frame, so it couldn’t have been an easy find. Why would Ronan make the effort to send me this dress if his men were only going to rip it off? Disturbingly, the grip on my lungs eased at the thought maybe it would just be death. But I refused to die in Gucci. Somehow, the image of me lying in a frozen grave while vultures picked at my corpse adorned in a luxury dress sent a wave of amusement through me. It inflated in my stomach, rose to shake in my chest, and then, the laugh escaped in a deranged peal of hilarity that brought tears to my eyes. Yulia stared at me like I was one giggle away from being committed. Slowly, I sobered, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and headed to the door. “You must dress, devushka.” I didn’t stop. Her voice hardened. “He will be displeased.” Days ago, that statement ruled me, controlled my every movement like a puppet on a string. Now, with unhinged mirth in my veins and my demise on the horizon, it had no hold on me.