CHAPTER Vety ine toska (n.) a dull ache of the soul Wla, I wore AMONG BLACK SHEETs and a woodsy scent that consumed every one of my senses. Ronan sat in a chair beside the bed. His eyes were lowered, and his elbows rested on his knees as he twisted my heart-shaped earring between his thumb and forefinger. A single turn of the synthetic diamond symbolized our relationship: He held my heart in the palm of his hand, bringing it out to play sometimes before putting it back in his pocket to be forgotten. He wasn’t aware I was awake, and I took the opportunity to view his private moment. Still in nothing but his briefs, his hair glinted blue in the sunlight and was mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. He was ink and vengeance and so very human beneath cold, steel armor. In Moscow, cartoon hearts danced in my eyes when I saw him. Now, in this wintery Russian fortress, the sight of him created a sharp ache in my chest that threatened to rip me in half. I wondered if Ronan’s conscience was responsible for him changing his mind about leaving me for dead, or simply the fact he’d have to forfeit his collateral. He’d surprised me by apologizing, though he was the one who told me apologies were worthless. Clearly, he couldn’t stomach the thought of being close to me for longer than it took to make sure I didn’t die. The earring fell from his fingers and sparkled as it bounced off the marble floor before rolling beneath the bed. My heartache disappeared in