“The Devil You Know” – X Ambassadors

Ronan pulls my chair out and I sit before he takes the seat beside me. My heart is still racing and my lips are still tingling, but Ronan just strikes up a conversation with the man next to him as if absolutely nothing happened. I pick up the glass of wine in front of me and down it in one gulp. The steak knife on the table catches my attention, and I picture myself picking it up and ramming it into Ronan's jugular. That should give him enough blood…

As if he can read my mind, he glances at me, lifting a brow at my empty wine glass. A waiter passes by and I hold the glass up, staring at Ronan as the man fills it again. When I raise it to my lips, Ronan takes it from me. Chardonnay splashes over his hand.

"Behave," he says as he strokes my hair behind my ear. There’s a sudden, sharp pain that shoots through my neck when his thumb brushes the small incision on my throat. Something uncomfortable settles in my stomach. I've been kidnapped, beaten, tortured, raped, and for some reason that implant feels more inhuman and barbaric than all of it. He's reduced me to an animal simpering beneath his will. I know he's bad, but I thought he was better than this. He brought a gun to a knife fight. And for some reason, as strange as it is, I find myself disappointed with him. I twist out of his hold and he smiles before dropping his hand.

The man next to me attempts to lure me into conversation, but I simply ignore him and drink half my glass of wine. The entire party fades to background noise as my mind drifts, dredging up memories I try my best to ignore. I jump when Ronan touches my hand, pulling it away from my neck. I hadn't even realized I was touching it. The men at the table discuss something, but of course I can’t understand a word they say. Annoyed, I glance around the room and spot Anastasia a few tables over glaring at us. I hate Ronan, but I hate that cunt more. I paint a smile on my lips before I turn to Ronan and trace my fingers over the back of his neck. His brows pinch in a frown. Even the thought of Anastasia's rage isn't enough to override the plummeting feeling tearing through me, that fissure of disappointed hurt that I want to cut out like a disease.

"I need to use the bathroom," I whisper and push my chair back.

I move to stand and Ronan grips my jaw, forcing me to hover just above my chair. He stares at me for a second before grazing his lips over mine in a whisper of a touch. “Don’t be long.”

My nostrils flare as I pull away from his hold and straighten up. I hurry to the restroom, shove the door open, and go straight to the mirror. Taking a deep breath, I brace my hands on the vanity before I glance up at the mirror and pull the diamond choker down inspecting the small incision on the side of my neck. The black thread looks like spider legs crawling out of my skin. The door pushes open and the noise from the ballroom spills inside. I keep looking in the mirror, paying no attention to the woman stopped at the sink. That is, until I feel her gaze on me. I turn. Anastasia. Great.

"You know he's in love with me?" she says, her eyes watering.

I throw my head back on a groan and pray for patience with this bullshit. "The same way you're in love with your husband?"

She inhales, her cheeks turning red. "You’re too plain for a man like him. You do understand that?"

"Okay, Skeletor." I laugh and take a step toward her. She, of course, takes a small step back. "If I'm so plain then why are you in the bathroom throwing your skinny ass around?" I eye her up and down before turning back to my reflection and running my fingers through my hair. She's still glaring at me in the mirror. "A lion doesn't need to roar to let you know it's a lion,” I say. “You're a politician's house cat, Anastasia."

"And from the looks of it, you're nothing but an expensive whore."

"From the woman doing the dirty on her husband?" Grinning, I cock a brow at her.

"If you know what's best for you, you'll leave him alone."

I snort. This bitch. "Oh, I don't think he wants to be left alone." I face her and prop my hip against the vanity. "In fact, he very much wants my company. In every single way." I bite my bottom lip on a smile.

Her eyes flash and my grin deepens just before a loud smack echoes around the restroom. My cheek stings, and Anastasia spins on her heel to leave. Closing my eyes, I inhale a calming breath but it doesn't work. My temper snaps like a band pulled too tight. In a heartbeat, I have my hand in her bleached hair. She squeals, and I pull back so hard that her back bows before she’s forced to her knees.

"Understand this," I whisper as I round her. "I may look like Ronan Cole's latest arm candy, but push me again and I will snap your skinny-fucking-neck like the pathetic slut you are." A small whimper slips through her lips before I yank her head back further. "Are we crystal clear?" Tears pour down her face, smudging her mascara. I hiss a breath through my teeth.

"Yes," she breathes.

"Good." I throw her messy hair out of my hand and she scrambles to her feet, rushing from the bathroom.

My pulse races. My chest heaves. I lean against the vanity to calm the red-hot anger beating away at me like a caged beast. Anastasia was the last straw. I'm out of control, completely at a loss for the first time in my life because Ronan Cole has so utterly removed it from me. I can't fight back without him pulling the plug with this stupid thing in my neck. I'm not afraid of death, but it has to be on my terms, not his. Whirling around, I stare at my reflection before I unfasten the choker at my throat and wrap it around my hand. I swing my arm back and ram my fist into the mirror. The glass shatters beneath the diamonds, splintering my reflection. Pieces of mirror fall into the sink. Some scatter across the tile. I grab a shard from the sink and toss the necklace to the floor.

Someone must have heard that. I imagine a worker will be coming in here at any moment so I slip into one of the stalls and lock the door. This is going to be a bitch, so I sit on the toilet and take a breath as I feel over the small stitches in my throat. My hand trembles as I place the glass to my neck and work the sharp point over the delicate threads. Jolts of pain radiate through me each time I accidently slice my skin. Blood slicks my fingers as I fumble through severing the stitches. They finally pop loose and warm liquid trickles down my neck.

The bathroom door creaks open. There’s the steady click of shoes as someone crosses the tile.

"Little kitty...” Ronan coos, “Come out, come out, wherever you are." The door to the first stall bangs against the wall and I cringe.

I press my fingers against the wound in my neck and take another deep breath. Forcing my nails into the cut, I ignore the churn in my stomach and the dizzy feeling in my mind. More blood gushes down my neck, gliding over my collar bone and catching on my dress.

The doors bang open one by one before there's a thud on the other side of the door I’m facing. "Jesus, I can't pee now?" I snap. I shove my fingers deeper into the gash until my nails scrape something tiny and hard. The pain is blinding. A sharp breath claws up my throat. Just a couple more centimeters.

He taps over the door. "Come out, Camilla."

I catch a hold of whatever the fuck he put inside me and try to pry it free from my neck, hissing at the pain. When I finally tug the metal chip out of my neck, I tear half my flesh away with it. I let out a heavy breath and collapse against the tank panting. The steady trickle of blood runs down my neck, and there's something oddly comforting about its warmth.

"Open the door."

I stand up and lift the lid, dropping the bloodied microchip into the water before I flush the toilet. I unlock the door and yank it open, coming face to face with Ronan. His gaze slowly drops to my neck, his cheeks reddening, and I can't help but smirk.

"You would..." He takes a step inside the stall, backing me against the cold wall. "I almost think you crave punishment." Grabbing both my wrists, he pins them to the wall above my head.

"As long as it's the old-fashioned way," I breathe. Anger and sheer dominance pour off him. My body hums in anticipation as he presses his body against mine.

One corner of his mouth tugs up. "Mm," he hums leaning in by my neck. The heat of his breath caresses the side of my throat, and I find myself closing my eyes at the feeling. "You want me to hurt you almost as much as I want to hurt you," he whispers before I feel his tongue drag along the side of my neck—right over the open wound. His hold on my wrists tightens, his fingers twitching as he places his lips over the cut and groans.

I bow against him, my head tilting to the side as a shameless moan slips past my lips. He's sick and awful, so what does that make me? I should be repulsed by him, but with each terrible thing he does, I only crave him more. He's a disturbing addiction that I wish I could quit, but know I would miss every single day.

His nose skims along my jawline as he drags his lips over my cheek. "Your blood almost tastes as good as your pussy."

My head spins, my legs tremble. I close my eyes and touch my forehead to his. "Show me," I whisper. I crave this toxic depravity. He's my downfall and I want him. I want it. His eyes dance with promises of pain and blood and everything I want so much, and then his lips slam over mine. Hard, brutal. His tongue brushes mine, and I savor the metallic taste of the blood staining his lips. I moan and then, he's gone.

I open my eyes and Ronan’s at the sink, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. And here I am, pressed against the wall because I'm afraid if I try to stand on my own I'll fall. Without as much as a glance in my direction, he steps into the hall. I go to the sink, grab a hand towel, and press it against my neck. He's like a tornado and I know I should move out of his path, but every time he approaches I find myself standing still, wanting to get swept up in those dangerous winds.

The door to the restroom flies open again. Ronan’s speaking to someone in Russian, anger lacing his voice before he steps back inside, holding my coat out. I slip my arms through the sleeves and he adjusts the collar, his eyes trained on the wound. "You do know that I'll just have another chip placed in your neck. If you rip that out. Another. And another. I will kill you, Camilla, but I won't do it just yet. How humane your death is, well," he narrows his eyes, "that's up to you."

I close my eyes, unable to look at him. "Please don't," I whisper. My eyes flash open. "Put a bullet in my head, fuck me, beat me, whatever you want. But please don't do that again." I awkwardly rub my hand over my forearm, and his eyes flicker with a sadistic pleasure. I hate that I'm reduced to begging— that this one, simple act bothers me so much and now he knows it. "We both know I’ll die here in your shitty country, but at least let me go down fighting." I look him over. "Or perhaps you like easy prey, Russian. I didn't take you for the type."

His finger swipes along my cheek, his eyes trained on my lips. "You are not easy prey, Krasivaya." Without another word, he threads his fingers through mine and leads me into the hall.

People stare as we pass. Even with the coat I guess they can see the blood. A man stops Ronan, speaking in muffled Russian as he flashes concerned glances my way. Ronan responds, and all I can make out is Anastasia's name. The man gasps and places a hand on his chest, and Ronan ushers me from the hotel and into the limo waiting outside.

The door closes and I glare at him. "If you just told him that bitch hurt me, I swear to god..." I press my fingers to my neck and they come away crimson. Jesus, how deep did he put that thing?

His fingers drum over his knee as he stares through the window.

"Why are you fucking her?" I ask, and he sighs in exasperation.

"Why did you fuck Jésus?" He turns to look at me. "You should understand..."

"Jésus was my enemy. I keep my enemies close." I glare at him. "I can't imagine Anastasia is your enemy, Ronan." I skim my gaze over his chest. "Maybe you just like the wifey types. You can tell me."

"Camilla," he leans across to me, "you truly know nothing about me, so how would you know who I consider an enemy?"

"Cryptic," I muse. "You're not very likeable. Surely everyone is your enemy, but I don't see you sinking your dick in half of Russia."

"You've yet to see me sink my dick into anything." He smiles before he turns his attention back out the window.

"With your taste in women...I'm good."

"Jealousy is not an attractive quality on you."

I laugh. "Russian, jealousy is an emotion experienced only over something one wants or is possessive of."

"Yes—I know." I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

"You know,” I roll my eyes. “You should go and see someone about that god complex of yours."

In true Ronan fashion, he simply ignores me. I know he's angry. Hell, I'm surprised the people out on the street can't feel it, but he hides it behind semi-civil conversation. Heaven forbid anyone should know that his precious control is slipping. But I can almost see it, his fingertips clinging to that delicate edge. Again, the thought of how beautifully devastating it would be to watch him fray and splinter pops into my mind. He would be like a category five hurricane colliding with civilization, destroying everything in his wake without mercy.

Ronan can keep his secrets, but if that blonde bitch comes at me again I will snap her neck. President's wife or not.