Warm fingertips gently brush over my neck, stirring me from sleep. When I blink my eyes open, I find Ronan sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on my face. "And she wakes," he says.

I roll over, hissing at the pain firing through my arm. Fuck, I hate getting shot. "That's going to scar," I grumble.

He arches a brow, and I swear there's a touch of glee dancing over his face. "I know."

"Helpful, Ronan."

"A doctor is here to stitch your arm." He pushes up. "Get dressed," he orders, lingering by the side of the bed, watching me.

I climb out of bed and go to the closet, grabbing a sleeveless dress as I glance at the long row of ridiculous gowns lining the wall. Heaven forbid there be a pair of jeans and a tank in here. It's like we're constantly expecting a visit from the Queen of England. When I walk out of the closet, Ronan opens the door to let an older man in.

He smiles as he approaches and places a doctor's bag on the bed. Ronan moves to stand beside me, sweeping my hair away from my injured arm and over my shoulder.

The man says something in Russian and Ronan nods before they both go into conversation. I can't understand a word of it and find it annoying. The man opens his bag, pulling out gauze, sutures, and needles. He holds up a tiny vial before jabbing a needle into the top and sucking the contents into a syringe.

I hiss out a breath when he plunges into my arm, the slow burn of the anesthesia working its way down to my fingers. "What is it with you people and giving no fucking warning!" They both ignore me. Ronan stands beside me as the man stitches me up. Once he's finished, the doctor pats my knee, and Ronan bristles before barking something in Russian. The doctor's face washes white and he quickly puts his supplies away before bustling through the door.

"If you constantly scare the shit out of everyone, no one will want to work for you," I say, hesitantly moving my arm back and forth, testing it as the feeling slowly tingles back. It's best not to be hindered when you sleep beside the devil. Ronan glares at me, and I roll my eyes. "Such a cheerful individual." I pull my arm across my chest, stretching it out with a wince.

He walks toward the door, glancing at his watch. "Breakfast will be served in ten minutes." And with that, he steps through the open door.

God, He gives me whiplash. One minute he's shooting me, the next he's openly telling me he wants me and now...now he's just his usual, joyful self.

The more I think about Ronan's admission last night, the more troubled I feel because those were not the words of a man who wishes to capture a woman. Those were the words of a man at war with himself, the same war I feel. When a man like Ronan Cole wants you, there is no escape. Only acceptance or resentment. I know this and yet, freedom beckons me. I worry that the longer I stay, the more I'll want him and the further I'll fall into this pool of depravity we both wallow in so willingly. Until one day, I won't want to leave. I'll simply be his captive. His loyal puppet on a string, broken, complicit. I can't allow it. I have to fight this no matter how exhilarating his presence is to me.

I get up and walk out of the room, lost in thought as I make my way to the dining room.

Ronan isn't here yet, but the servants hurry around, laying out plates and pouring coffee. I take my usual seat and pick up a knife, spinning it on my index finger.

When the doors to the dining room open again, Ronan stands between them, pristine in his designer suit. He takes his seat, servants immediately pouring his coffee and all but bowing in his presence. He glances over the rim of his coffee cup. "Do they not drink coffee in Mexico?"

"It's Juarez, not the Amazon jungle, Ronan." I huff. "We also have electricity in case you were wondering."

"I see." He takes a sip of his coffee before setting the cup on the table.

Two plates are placed in front of us. Eggs Benedict, the same as every morning. He's nothing if not predictable when it comes to his comforts and the finer things in life.

We eat in silence and I make no effort to converse with him. My mind is elsewhere, dreaming of hot desert sands and dirty corrupt streets I may never again see. When the servants come back to clear the table I scoot my chair back. Ronan clears his throat. "We have something to discuss," he says, tossing his napkin on the table.

"Oh?"

He taps the tabletop. "You want your freedom, but... I want to keep you."

I lean back in my chair, my gaze locking with his. "Yes."

His eyes dragging over my body until every last inch of my skin heats from his look alone. "You've played fair so... as much as I may crave you, I must let you go. You're free to leave." He shakes his head as he scoots his chair away from the table and stands. "Such a shame, we could have been so powerful together."

I narrow my eyes. "You're letting me go?"

"Yes." He turns from the table. "I will miss you, little kitty."

My heart rate picks up, and something close to panic seizes me. This is what I want, isn't it? Freedom.

"I'll have Igor bring a car around for you." He starts toward the door.

"Ronan." His name falls from my lips without permission.

Pausing, he turns to face me. There's a desperate moment where all I can hear is the rattling of my own breath inside my lungs. I'm caught between the knowledge of what I should do, of what I need to do, and what I want...what I crave. The two contradict each other violently, clashing inside my mind.

My fingernails scream in protest as I grip the edge of the table, trying to keep myself seated, trying to let him walk away. My body feels very much like one of his puppets as I get up, walk to him, and slam my lips against his. I need him, his taste, his power, his sheer brutality. His fingers grip my hair, tugging hard enough to make my scalp burn. The kiss is angry and desperate, need laced with hate and a strange finality that makes my chest hurt.

"You now have your freedom," he says against my lips. "And now I get to keep you, because you want this." His fingers tighten in my hair.

I pull back until my lips barely brush his. "I can't want you."

"Ah, but you crave me just as much as I crave you. We're two addicts chasing the same dark high," he breathes, the scent of expensive brandy caressing my tongue. He's right of course. That swirling need wraps around me in a vortex so deep and dark that I'm left drowning.

My hold tight to the front of his jacket, and every single fiber of my being gravitates toward him. I can't say anything. I don't trust myself to speak—not to jump head first into Ronan's twisted world, because as much as I try to deny it, I do want him. I want everything that we could be, and there are no longer any pretenses for me to hide behind. He set me free. This time there's no doubt that I'm a willing participant. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. A lamb in the sights of a lion with nowhere left to run or hide.

"Don't lie to yourself, Camilla. There is no reason to." He sweeps his fingers along my throat. "If you didn't want this, you would already be out the door."

I glance at the door and think of Gabriel, of the cartel we built together. It was once all I craved, to carve out a little piece of power for the two of us, to become ruthless and feared, but now... Now Ronan has changed my perception. I thought I was powerful and that my name granted me protection, yet he took me and so easily made me powerless. He made me both hate him and want him. No man will ever compare. No man will ever make me want to fuck him and slit his throat in the same breath the way this one can. Perhaps, at some point I'll be ready to quit this crippling addiction, but at this point, I can't. I won't.

A trembling breath leaves me and the war in my mind reaches a precipice, a tipping point. If I walk away from Ronan now I will forever crave him. I will always want something beyond my reach. "I'm free to leave?"

"Yes."

With a sigh I lift my gaze to his. I can see the same war raging in his eyes. We both want something we despise because it makes us weak, but what if it made us stronger? What if Ronan makes me stronger? He's right, together we could be unstoppable. I still can't completely concede to being his, though. I need to keep my business. "I want my cartel back," I smirk.

His eyes dance with amusement. "Of course you do."

"And I'm not staying as your whore, Russian."

A slight smirk tugs at his lips and he strokes his fingers over my cheek. "The devil would never have a whore as his queen, krasivaya," he says as he turns around and walks out of the room.