I sit behind the wheel of Anastasia's Mercedes, my fingers gripping the cold wheel as Igor directs me along the icy roads. He looks like a statue in the passenger seat with tension radiating from him. He didn't like me before I took a slice out of Ronan and he sure as fuck isn't going to like me now. My thigh throbs painfully, serving as a stark reminder of how close I came with Ronan. Death breathing down my neck, whispering such sweet promises.

We drive for half an hour before I pull up to the site of an old mine. The rusted chain link gate hangs open and the road veers off to the left. Climbing from the car, I walk up to the flimsy looking metal barrier that separates the road from the drop beyond. I glance down the sheer cliff face carved out of the limestone. In her distress, it would be entirely plausible for fragile Anastasia to kill her husband then drive of a ledge, ending her life in a fiery explosion at the bottom of the ravine.

Smiling to myself, I walk back to the car and get in. I drive in reverse for a good hundred yards and pull the handbrake on. "Get her out of the trunk," I say to Igor. He glares at me. "You aren't here to look pretty. Hurry up." He throws the door open and I climb out, waiting impatiently as he hauls her blood drenched body out of the trunk. "Put her in the driver's seat."

Once he's dumped her in the seat, I lean inside the car, pulling the seatbelt out and looping it through the bottom of the steering wheel before I buckle it. Now, something to keep the accelerator down... As luck would have it, when I glance down my gaze lands on a decent sized rock. With a satisfied smile, I pick it up and wedge it over the accelerator. The engine lets out a high-pitched whine, and I take a deep breath before I tear a piece of material from my dress. "When I say, you're going to put the car in drive and step back, Igor. Fast."

Igor glares at me, but eventually nods. I unscrew the fuel cap, stuff the strip of material inside, then pull the lighter from my coat pocket. The flint rolls under my thumb, and I watch the flame dance as I eagerly reach for the scrap of material. The flame meets the end, crawling over the silken threads. I crave the destruction, I do. "Now!" I shout.

Igor leans inside the car, jumping back as it jolts forward almost taking him with it. The wheels spin, sending the loose gravel spraying everywhere as the car guns toward the metal barrier. With a crash, it smashes through and disappears over the edge of the cliff. There's a moment of silence followed by an enormous bang. I rush to the cliff's edge and look down just as the fuel tank catches and the car erupts into a ball of fire. Precious heat blankets my face. The flames eat away at the luxury Mercedes like an angry monster craving a sacrifice, and that makes me smile.

When I step back from the ledge, Igor who is already heading toward the woods that line the road. "Tell me we're not walking back," I say. Of course, he doesn't answer, just disappears beyond the tree line. I glance down at my heeled boots and sigh. This is going to be unpleasant.

Half an hour later and I'm ready to kill Igor... and Ronan. I'm freezing, my feet are killing me, and the throbbing in my leg grows with every step. Not to mention, my boots are ruined. I break through the edge of the forest onto a small country road. A car idles a few hundred yards away. Igor is standing next to it with his arms crossed and his foot tapping over the road. On a groan, I stomp over to him and yank the door open. Fucking Russians.

As soon as I step through Ronan's gaudy front door, one of his staff takes my coat. He doesn't so much as blink at the sight of my dress coated in blood. Hell, maybe there's just so much of it that it looks red now.

"Mr. Cole asked me to inform you that dinner is at seven," the man says before quietly disappearing.

Ronan himself is nowhere to be seen. The foyer floor that only a few hours ago was a beautiful shade of crimson is once again spotless, sparkling marble. It's as though it never happened, as though Anastasia's death did not occur. She has been erased, and the thought makes me smile. God, how I hated the way she looked at Ronan, her pathetic simpering, and... the fact that she had his attention in any fashion. My grin morphs to a frown. Was I jealous of her? No, jealousy is something one feels when they are possessive of something or someone. I'm not possessive of Ronan. I hate him...

My heels click over the marble as I make my way up the stairs to my room. Something has changed. I can sense it in the air, feel it thrumming through my veins. I should be dead. Really, I should have been dead from the second I set foot in this monstrosity of a house. Since the moment I arrived, Ronan and I have danced around each other, pivoting and twirling with knives in hand, drawing blood with every move. But tonight, with his gun pressed to my chin, that was supposed to be our big finale, the crowning glory of our piece. I should have died, and yet, here I am. So now what? Does the dance go on? Or do we begin a new one? Shit. I hate the endless questions, the not knowing.

Stripping out of my dress, I go to the bathroom and start the shower. I wait for the room to fog up before I go to the toilet and remove the back. Inside, propped against the pipe, is the mobile phone from my mysterious friend. It looks so innocent, so harmless. I know better. I turn it on and check it. No messages. Maybe that's it. One simple task: steal a USB stick from Ronan and drop it off for them. And then what? They have no more use for me. I did my part, fully expecting to die before I saw the consequences, but I'm not dead, which means.... I may yet see the consequences of my actions, and I think I'd rather be dead than deal with Ronan's wrath if he finds out. Even though there must already be a rat in his midst, said rat is obviously very good at hiding while I am an obvious suspect. I need to get rid of the phone, but where? I glance around the bathroom. I'll have to be clever, so for now it will stay in its hiding spot. I place it back inside the toilet tank and slowly slide the lid into place before I climb into the shower to wash the dirt and blood from my body.

After the shower, I step into the bedroom to find a dress laid out on the bed. Next to it lays a bandage for my leg. Ah, Ronan Cole, ever in need of absolute control.

By the time I wrap my leg and get dressed, it's nearly seven. Sighing, I go downstairs and, without consciously making the decision, I find myself standing in his office doorway. He's sitting at his desk, turned away from the doorway with the phone pressed to his ear. I watch the way his jaw tenses before he snaps out a word in Russian and hangs up. Twisting in his chair, he places the phone on the desk, pausing when he spots me. His gaze slowly drags over my body, and a small smile pulls at his lips.

"Ronan."

He grabs a cigar from the ashtray and relights it as he pushes to his feet and rounds the desk. Without a word, he takes me by the arm and leads me from the office to the lavish dining room. The cherry scent of smoke drifts around us, reminding me so entirely of him and only him. Like a gentleman, he pulls out my chair before sitting at the head of the table to my left.

"How did you dispose of the body?" He takes his napkin and unfolds it.

"I sent the car into an abandoned mine where it exploded." I press my hand to my chest. "So tragic."

His cold eyes stare through me, studying me, and I wonder what he's thinking. If he's wishing to kill me. Kiss me. Keep me...

The servants bring two plates into the room and place them on the table. I glance at the rare steak in front of me, mesmerized by the crimson juices creeping across the white china. We sit in silence as we eat, though I can feel his eyes on me. Always watching like a collector with a prized possession, he studies me. When I finish, I set my knife and fork down on my plate and pick up my glass of wine.

A servant bustles into the room, placing a glass of brandy in front of Ronan before removing our plates. He lifts the glass to his lips, staring over the rim at me. The silence presses in on me until his lips quirk in the hint of a smile and he crooks a finger to motion me over. Narrowing my eyes, curiosity gets the better of me and I slowly push to my feet. I still feel like I'm standing in quicksand with him, sinking with every passing minute, unsure whether I'll drown or he'll pull me out. I round the table and stop beside him. His gaze rakes over my body slowly and my stomach tightens in anticipation.

He pats the table in front of him. "Sit, krasivaya."

I slide onto the polished surface of the table, crossing one leg over the other. Smirking, he forces my legs apart until he's sitting between them. I roll my eyes on a sigh. "So, now everyone is dead..."

His eyes flash with pride as he picks up his glass. "And you're alive."

I fight a smile. "I am. Was that also part of your grand plan, Russian?"

"No." He takes another sip of his brandy, his gaze roaming over me. "But I do like surprises." His eyes flicker with the promise of danger, destruction. His hand lands on my leg and he pushes my dress up until his fingers brush the bandage at the top of my thigh.

"So, you've killed the Prime Minister, and the President, what now?" I can't say I'm not curious, this level of planning and manipulation...it has to have an important purpose, a greater scheme.

A sinister, depraved smile crosses his lips. "Power." He places his drink on the table and stands, pressing between my spread thighs. His thumb drags along my bottom lip and he leans in until his mouth brushes my throat. "Money. Blood." The air between us crackles and my chest tightens as my pulse skitters slightly. A shiver tears up my arm as his warm breath caresses my skin.

"You have all that," I whisper. "And where do I fit in your quest for blood and power?" I lift my hand and slowly trail my finger down his chest, leaning into him. "Do you still want to watch me bleed?"

His lips curl slightly, promising dark and sensual things. He suddenly grips my jaw. Hard. Heat engulfs my body as he forces my head back and kisses me, hammering against the iron clad walls I've built to keep my enemies out. They tremble in his wake, cracking under the pressure. My lips part, inviting in his darkness, welcoming his depravity. He tastes of brandy and cigar smoke and everything I should hate. My craving for him ratchets. An addict alone may see the error of their ways, but two addicts together, well, such an addiction may just seem rational. He breaks away from me and presses his forehead against mine.

This is complicated. He makes everything so complicated. Everything is contorted until I don't know which way is up. Enemies look like lovers and depraved acts become sick cravings.

"Why am I still here, Ronan?" I breathe. I have to know.

"I wanted you alive..." His lips brush against my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair. "I wanted you dead. I couldn't choose." He kisses below my ear. "So I let fate decide."

"So, I'm to just stay here indefinitely—as your captive?" I ask. We both know the situation has changed. I should be dead, and the very fact that he placed a loaded gun to my head suggests that whatever possible need he had for me has elapsed. And so here we are, in this limbo. Captor and captive, hunter and prey—but I am no man's prey.

"Hmph." He drags a finger over my lips. There's lust and and hate simmering in his ice-blue eyes, and I find myself mesmerized.

"Ronan..."

"If it would make you feel better to believe you are only here due to force..."

"Does that mean I could leave if I chose to?"

All he does is smile and nod toward the door. "You're welcome to find out."

Narrowing my eyes, I push to my feet and bring my chest against his. The power that surrounds him crackles through the air, choking me until he seems like the oxygen I need to breathe. "You'd let me go?"

"I didn't say that." His stubble scratches my face as his lips skim my throat.

"Then, I'm still your captive," I say, my voice hitching.

"No, you're mine." His hold on my hair tightens possessively. "There's a difference."

I look up and his red-hot gaze crashes into mine. Distanced and yet ruthlessly possessive. "There is a difference," I whisper. Something teases the edge of my mind; possibilities, cravings, a lust so intense it burns me from the inside out, and there's a moment where I can hear nothing but the pounding of my pulse, feel nothing but him. His presence sears over me like my beloved fire, all-consuming and destructive. He slowly inches toward me until his lips are only a whisper from my own. "I promise," he smiles against my lips, "you'll like it, little kitty."

I blink, subconsciously swaying towards him. A small voice in the back of my mind screams at me to fight it, to see him for what he is: my enemy, a monster, the man who would kill me. What happens when we crave the very thing that is the most dangerous to us? Ronan is danger and adrenaline and raw power. I both hate and love this twisted pull he has over me. The thing is, he's right. I will like it. I'll stand in the fire and bask in the heat as it burns me. That is what he does to me. And so here we are again, dancing around the flames, beckoning and daring each other. Only this time it's changed. This feels...different. Volatile. Still life threatening, but for entirely new reasons. The realization that it can't be different dawns on me, because if Ronan isn't my enemy, then what is he? People like he and I... we fight, we draw blood, we go to war. There is nothing else. He is the Russian who kidnapped me and stole my cartel. I am the girl he took and used as a pawn, right up until only a few hours ago he put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. These...feelings are misplaced and they will get me killed with a man like him. I've always played Ronan's game, but this is an entirely new game and I'm suddenly very unsure that I can win.

"I need..." I step around him, edging toward the door. He cocks a brow while his eyes set on me like a predator watching retreating prey. "I need to go." I try and force my voice to remain steady.

"You may leave," he says as though he's granting permission. And maybe he is. I whirl around and hurry from the room, my heels clicking rhythmically over the marble floors as I do something I've never done: run away from Ronan Cole.