The next few days are strange.

I make an effort to avoid Ronan while sleeping in his bed each night. If I go elsewhere he finds me; I've tried.

I've agreed to stay here. To be with him, and I am terrified of what that means. If anyone had told me a year ago that I would willingly choose a Russian over my brother, my cartel, my country...well, I would have laughed. But I still have my cartel, and now...now I have the opportunity to grasp more power than any boss in Mexico could ever dream of. Isn't that what people like Ronan and I seek above all else? Even together, we're looking to over-power each other. There's a thrill in having even the slightest thread of control over a man as untouchable as Ronan. And having him at my side—that's intoxicating in a way I don't have words for.

Yes, true power is rarely an addiction of the pure. Ronan and I are as tainted as each other.

I lie awake, listening to his breaths, feeling his chest rise and fall against my back as his arm tightens around my waist. Every morning I wake up and fight through this quagmire of emotions. For the most part I force myself not to get too close, to remember who and what he is, but it's these few moments between night and day, when the sky turns from black to grey when it's the hardest. Ronan makes me feel protected and wanted, something precious in a world where I have always been disposable to everyone but Gabriel. Even my own father would not protect me or save me when it meant jeopardizing his business. Maybe that's just the extent of Ronan's power; he doesn't have to choose one or the other. But somehow, I know he would kill anyone who would hurt me, even if only for touching what he deems his. His control and need to dominate would allow nothing less.

He groans and presses his lips into my shoulder, trailing his fingers over the bare skin of my waist. When I roll over I'm met with those deep blue eyes, watching me lazily. He sweeps my hair from my face. For a long moment he just stares at me. As if lured by simple gravitational force, I lean in, placing my lips against his. For once, the kiss isn't hard or angry or violent. It's simple, almost sweet. After a few seconds, he pulls away from me and rolls out of bed in nothing but boxers. I watch his muscular back roll and flex with every step as he goes into the bathroom. Yes, Ronan Cole is a contradiction I'm not sure I'll ever understand.

I must have fallen back to sleep because I jolt awake when the sheets are ripped off of me and cold air engulfs my body.

Ronan snaps his fingers. "Get dressed."

"Fuck off, Russian." I tug at the covers but he doesn't let go. I sit up and glare at him. He's showered and dressed in an immaculate suit. "It's early and it's cold. Go and... kill world leaders and take innocent women." I wave my hand in the air.

His cold gaze sets on me while he adjusts his cufflinks. "I already have." He yanks the covers to the floor. "I don't like to be late to a funeral," he says. "It's distasteful."

"Another funeral..." I flop back on the bed and groan. "For another guy you had killed. I'm sure that's bad juju."

His blue eyes flicker. "I didn't have him killed."

"Fine, the man whose death you manipulated into fruition."

He holds his hands out, wriggling his fingers as he pretends to make a puppet dance on its strings. He laughs. "I was rather pleased with how it all turned out."

Of course he was. "Let's just stay here," I say, seductively running my fingernail over the scab at the base of my throat. If I can draw a little blood...

His nostrils flare, jaw ticking violently. His hand lashes out like a snake striking prey, and his fingers wrap tightly around my throat as he drags me to my knees on the bed. "Don't..." His eyes flick down to on my throat and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Get dressed. Now." And without another word, he releases me.

I smile. Ah, Ronan and his infamous control. One of these days I will break him so entirely that the devil himself will smile and crack out the popcorn.

"You know, " I trail my finger down his chest and he scowls at me, "I feel an awful lot like your captive right now."

In true Ronan fashion, he ignores me as he walks toward the closet, yanks a dress from a hanger, then tosses it to the foot of the bed. "Be ready in thirty minutes."

And with that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

An hour later, we're in crowded, cold Moscow.

The car slows to a stop and the driver opens the door. Ronan gets out, fastening his suit jacket before holding his hand out to me. I step onto the sidewalk in front of the same cathedral we were in barely two weeks ago for the Prime Minister's funeral. Crowds line the streets, some clutching flowers, others crying.

I've never understood patriotism and loyalty to a man you've never met. I have no idea what kind of man or president Nicholi Derevechi was but, in my limited experience, most governments are corrupt in one way or another. Then again... Ronan wanted him dead, which suggests he wasn't willing to dabble with the dark side. Good intentions aren't serving him very well now.

People bow their heads and cross themselves as we shuffle toward the cathedral doors. Little do they know they need to in Ronan's presence. I loop my hand through Ronan's arm. I instantly notice the heavy security when we walk inside the church. They line the back wall, trying to blend in with their suits, but their eyes constantly shift on the lookout for new threats.

Ronan leans in by my ear, the clean scent of his cologne drowning out the spicy smell of incense. "The beauty of a President's funeral is that you can get every world leader in one room." He inhales. "Imagine the possibilities."

I turn as he flashes a smile at someone in a pew. "A little warning would be great this time," I say.

He presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me to a pew a few rows from the front. With a wry smile, he unfastens my fur coat and slowly slides it over my shoulders. A hush falls around me and I roll my eyes. The only thing worse than wearing red to a funeral is wearing white.

We take our seats and Ronan places his hand on my thigh. "Closed casket, I see." A slow smirk works over his lips.

"Crime of passion," I whisper, leaning in to his side. "Messy."

"One can only hope." He grabs my chin and tilts my head back. "One can only hope..." His lips press to the corner of my mouth and people behind us whisper.

"Careful, Russian. Your mask is slipping." I nip at his bottom lip before he faces the front.

The priest steps to the altar and clears his throat before rambling off in Russian. I zone out instantly. I'm Catholic and, while I respect religion, it's hard to pay attention when I don't understand a word of it.

At some point I must have fallen asleep, again, because I wake up when Ronan shifts slightly. "Amen," Ronan says with a wry smile before pushing to his feet and holding out my coat. I stand, stretching my neck to the side before I slip my arms through the sleeves.

The streets outside the cathedral are still lined with people when we exit. Photographers shamelessly try to snap pictures of the high-profile attendees while security force them back. It's somber yet chaotic. I keep my face toward the ground in an attempt to look aggrieved as Ronan shoulders past people to the waiting car.

"Can we drink yet?" I ask.

He just smiles.