I glance up from my spreadsheet as Igor slowly pushes my office door open, stepping inside. He stands there like a buffoon, his chest all puffed out, his forehead wrinkled.

“What?” I glance back at the screen, tracing wire transfers.

“Interpol is here.”

I arch my brows. “What?” I say in a hiss, shoving my chair away from the desk. “Interpol?”

He nods. My pulse ticks up, an anxious heat creeping beneath the collar of my shirt. I take a moment to collect myself, brushing my hand over the front of my shirt before I step toward the door. I’ve barely made three steps into the foyer before I see two men in uniform standing next to Donovan. “Offer the gentlemen some tea, Igor,” I say as cross the foyer with a fake smile.

“That’s not necessary,” one of them says dryly. “I’m Agent Renwolf and this is Agent Malcom.”

“Ronan Cole.” I extend my hand and they reluctantly shake it. “Won’t you come in?” I say, motioning toward the sitting room to the left. Their expressions remain staunch as I lead them into the room and take a seat. There are a million reasons they should be here, but I’ve paid hefty fees to ensure they never are. Unfortunately, I can’t exactly buy the Interpol off, just the people who report to them. “Now, what can I help you with?” I grab a cigar and light it.

“You attended President Derivichi’s funeral dinner, correct?”

I frown. “Yes. Sadly, yes. It seems no one is safe these days.”

They glance at each other. “Did you see any suspicious activity?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about why the building was evacuated?” Malcom whips out a notepad.

I shrug a shoulder, puffing on my cigar. “I’ve seen the news, they said something about a biological agent of some sort, I believe.” I furrow my brow. “May I ask, why are questioning me?”

“Standard procedure,” Malcom says, and scribbles a note.

“Well, I am sorry, but I don’t know I’ll be of any help. I was rather distracted with my fiancé.” I study them, gauging if there is a reaction. “She is rather stunning.”

The glance at each other and nod before standing. “Thank you, Mr Cole. If you think of anything out of the ordinary, please let us know.”

“Of course.” I stand to show them out.

When we reach the entrance, Malcom turns to face me. “There may be further questioning,” he says. “But I’m sure that won’t be a problem?”

“Of course not.” I smile, and Igor opens the door. The second the door closes, I storm to my office, fuming.

This is not coincidence. Something is not right. I pace in front of the fireplace, going over the possible traitors when Igor shows himself in. “Boss,” he says and I turn quickly to face him. “This is serious.”

“Don’t you think I know that, Igor!”

“The Italians, The Horseman… now the Interpol, no one has ever come against you like this.” He takes a breath. “With all due respect, you’re losing sight of things.”

I glare at him, my nostrils flaring.

“The woman, it’s like she possesses you. You killed two of your own men.”

“Out, Igor!” My voice echoes around the room.

“I am only trying to do my job, sir,” he says as he retreats from the room.

What have I done? I’ve lost myself in a game of cat and mouse, consumed with the animal magnetism that radiates from her. Had she been any other person, I would have killed her. No questions. No hesitations, but instead, I kill for her. I brought Sebastian here. I’ve involved myself in silly cartel wars to appease her—dare I say, to win her affection.

A fissure of anger ripples through me. I’m disgusted with myself. I may feel for her, and while she may be strong in her own right, she only weakens me. I said I would chase her as the darkness chases the light, but therein lies the dilemma, when the darkness catches the light. It consumes it.

Dark and light can never co-exist.

Dragging in a heavy sigh, I resign myself to what I must do. While I enjoy this little game immensely, it’s run its course. I open the door and call for Igor as I head toward the stairs.

“Yes?”

“I’ll need my brandy, and bring the special bottle of vodka for Miss Estrada please. You were right, this game has gone on far too long.”

Camilla is standing in front of the fire when I enter my bedroom. The glow of the flames silhouettes her body, accentuating her curves. How tantalizing it is that I was enamored with a woman I should have long ago killed.

She turns around when I place my suit jacket over the chair beside the dressing table, and I spot a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes.

"Ronan," she says, her voice wavering slightly. She's still upset about Gabriel. Love truly does nothing but make the strong weak. Even as I think this, my chest tightens against my will—a show of my own developing weakness. I watch the way the flames dance over her face, the way she looks at me as though she's not fully sure whether to trust me or not. The thought of losing her causes me pain. It makes me weak. And why give into a weakness such as love when you know, at some point, you will lose it? The strong know when to cut their losses, and while this may pain me, it is for the best to lose her before I lose myself.

There's a knock on the door before it opens and one of the servants enters the room, placing a silver tray on the table beside the fireplace. On it, a bottle of vodka and a bottle brandy, and two glasses to toast to our final night together.

Smiling, I grab the bottle of vodka and pour my sweet little kitty a drink. "You need something to take the edge off," I say, handing the glass to her.

She takes it, her eyes locking with mine as she lifts it to her lips. There's a split-second where my fingers twitch and I start to knock the glass from her hand. Before I can, she tips it back in one gulp. My heart gallops in my chest like a raging stallion, sending a sudden chill down my spine. Weakness. It is but weakness.

"Thanks," she says, setting the glass on the mantel piece.

Without a word, I grab her by the arms and slam her against the wall in a brutal kiss. Her warm lips are so perfect beneath mine, but the lingering taste of the vodka serves as a solemn reminder of what is to come. "You make me weak, krasivaya," I breath against her mouth.

Her fingers trail along my jaw, her rapid breaths caressing my lips. "Nothing could make you weak, Russian." The brush of her tongue against my own makes me groan.

"Nothing but you."

She grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks the material apart sending buttons scattering over the thick rug while her lips sweep along my throat. "Show me," she breathes.

"So weak... That I don't even need your blood." I kiss down her chest as I take the top of her dress and pull.

She shoves the waist of my pants down, her fingers gripping me. And with that, I shred the thin cotton down the middle, ripping every last piece of clothing from her body before I throw her down on the bed. Camilla is waiting for me with her legs spread, and there my little kitty is, so certain. So very sure. A queen on her thrown of sexual prowess. Mine for the taking...

Thoughts of hurting her, fucking her swirl through my mind, but I know that to all symphonies there must be that one overture, that one movement that chokes out expression from even the most hardened of hearts. A Magnus Opus...

I slowly lower myself down over her, relishing in the delicate heat of her skin against mine. Her breaths rise in uneven swells and I wonder if the poison is already working. Another twinge of something—loss, guilt—fires through me like angry venom, but I sweep it from my mind and lie down between her legs, placing my lips against her. The sweet taste when I dip my tongue inside her is nearly too much. I find my fingers digging into her thighs, my mouth growing desperate for more. She claws at my hair, moaning and panting, and just when I bring her to the precipice of release, I stop.

"Ronan," she pleads.

I move over her, settling between her thighs. My nostrils flare as I trail my fingers along her jaw. I want to etch the memory of her face into my mind forever so I will always remember when I was almost brought to my knees. I'd be a liar if I denied that I love her. Within all my depravity, there is a subtle hint of humanity left, and that is what she has claimed, and when she dies, she'll take it with her. "Camilla Estrada," I say, as I slowly slide inside her, "you are the woman who finally broke me."

Her nails cut into my shoulders as though she's trying to ground herself by clinging onto me. Her forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling as though we were one. "You are both my salvation and my destruction, Ronan."

And I doubt she knows how very true that is.

I force myself deeper inside of her, closing my eyes to feel every inch. There's a moment when the weight of it all bares down on me like some unseen force. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, kissing, inhaling the scent of hibiscus that is forever clinging to her skin. If only we could have existed this way with each other... but two predators can never stop circling one another. I kiss her again. I can certainly see the allure of love. It's like a drug, sickeningly sweet. One I'd have welcomed death for if I'd allowed myself to fall any further.

Her back bows from the bed, and I hold her as we both unravel together in a tangle of body and moans. She knows this will not last, I feel it. We are two souls desperately trying to express the inexpressible within this final act. But, for me, it's not enough.

She lies panting underneath me and I move my face inches from hers. "I love you, krasivaya, and, I promise you," I brush my finger over her lip, "you are the only woman who will ever hear those words." I roll off her and pull her to my chest.

Her eyes meet mine with a glimmer of pain before she squeezes them closed. "I love you," she breathes.

I hold her close, stroking over her dark hair until she falls asleep, but sleep evades me. I rise, going to sit by the fireplace. I drink and I drink until the bottle of brandy is empty, and I watch her. Waiting.

Every time her chest fails to rise, my chest tightens. My heart pounds. And then she takes a breath and relief washes over me even though I know it's only momentary. Her fate has been sealed. I take the last sip of brandy, my vision doubling as I stare straight ahead. Is it possible that killing her may cause more pain than having let her live?

I drag my hand over my face. I've poisoned the woman I love in an effort to save myself—but really, I believe subconsciously it was to save her from me. Should I really feel guilt when death awaits us all, for isn't it much more poetic to be killed slowly at the hands of a man terrified he'd never love you enough than die alone?

I could go with her... I glance at the bottle of vodka, my vision doubling as I stroke my fingers over its smooth curve, accidentally knocking it to the ground. The glass shatters, the vodka soaks into the wooden floorboards, and now I'm left with no other choice. I stagger to the bed and crawl in beside her, wrapping my arm around her waist and holding her close. "I love you, krasivaya. So much so I had to kill you."