He made a rough noise. “Dvoye mertvetsov.” Two dead men. I frowned. “I’m not going to tell you stuff if you’re going to kill people because of it.” Odd I needed to make that clear . . . but that was where I was. His eyes darkened. “Was one of them Ivan?” “No.” The look in his gaze cooled. “Fine. They can live.” “How noble of you,” I returned drily. “Keep going.” After a moment of thought, I said, “Five men have kissed me. When I’m not being held captive, I wash my hair with Pacifica. And it takes me three hundred and eighty-eight licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.” He laughed at the fact I knew the answer to that question. “Fuck.” That single word said nothing and everything at once. “Ts your curiosity satisfied now?” I questioned. His eyes grew heated, then he released his grip on my wrists and ran a thumb across my lips. “Nyet.” His touch burned and swelled heat inside me. My breath grew shallow. My chest burned. I was at the bottom of a pool, curly hair floating and aglow. And I no longer cared if I drowned. “Will you fuck me now?” I asked. He nipped my throat and growled, “Da.” D’yavol may have stolen my breath. But I gave him my heart. Sweat ran rivulets down my back, my long hair was damp and stuck to my skin, and my muscles embodied jelly, moldable and pliant as Ronan put me through every sexual position known to mankind. We would have gone