CHAPTER Joüurteen machiavellian (n.) wicked, villainous, deceitful Wa, “You COULD HAVE AT LEAST tried to make an effort,” Ronan said like he was disappointed in me, examining the photo he took. This man was disturbed. The devil walking the streets of Moscow. He put his phone in his back pocket and dropped to his haunches in front of me. Untying the ropes on my wrists, he absently ran a thumb over the raw skin beneath. Those little caresses convinced me only yesterday he cared for me, but maybe that warmth was just a secret villains passed down to one another as a means of drawing their prey in before stomping their hearts beneath their feet. “Is your papa as demented as you?” I asked tonelessly. He looked at me, amused. “Not sure. Never met him. But if it makes you feel better, my mother was just as sadistic as yours.” My eyes flashed with resentment, but his expression and the fact he was close enough to slap me again held my response in. His gaze contained a warning within before he rose and turned off the amateur porn on the TV. I rubbed my wrists and stood, wincing at the ache in my muscles, and watched him cautiously as he leaned against the dresser, his attention on his phone. Probably sending that stupid photo to my papa. He could have put a lot more power into that slap earlier; a red handprint on my cheek would have made a better selfie. I wasn’t so convinced he wanted to hurt me. Maybe I could make him see reason. Maybe I could get out of this with my soul intact.