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61
MILA
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN IT wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of Ronan. He might not be in the hospital room with me physically, but his presence was everywhere.After the doctors examined me, I often thought they rushed out of the room, phones to their ears, to update himon my condition. Only D’yavol would receive that sort of hasty, nervous response.The first conscious day in the hospital, a boy delivered a mini fridge full of vegan meals, a bag of dog food, and a note.Eat. —RonanI would have rolled my eyes at the demand a couple of weeks ago, but this time, it brought a smile to my lips and a throb to my heart.Ronan had pulled some strings threatened someone to allow Khaos to stay with me, and I knew it because a dog’s portrait in the universal red no-entry sign decorated the wall outside my room. The gesture filled me with relief, because I didn’t think I could handle being alone with my thoughts right now. Khaos was theRelated chapters
Lost in Moscow's Secret 62
ITOOK A LYFT RIDE to pick up Khaos on my way to The Moorings. Sweet Emma’s hair was sticking out in every direction when she calmly told me, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for him.”Khaos came to sit by my side, acting as innocent as could be, but one of the cats shooting a glare at himwas missing a large tuft of fur.I apologized profusely, feeling awful for leaving Khaos with Emma. Though I knew he wouldn’t do well in a boarding kennel. I had no idea what to do with himthe next time I had to leave, but I had two weeks to think about it before my next international shoot in Jamaica.On the way to The Moorings, I thought of Madame Richie and her stupid tarot card. I mentally tried to figure out the odds of her drawing that card. I imagined all kinds of crazy ideas—like she’d watched me frombehind trees for years and then played The Devil to unsettle me.Frustrated with my musings, I exhaled and told myself it was just a coincidence. A freaky coi
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MILAEIGHT HOURS LATER, I GLANCED out the window of the private jet. “Ronan . . . did Moscow get an Eiffel Tower of its own recently?” “I would never allow that kind of romantic tourismin my city.” “Huh,” I mused. “So why amI seeing the Eiffel Tower right now?” “We’re in Paris,” he said indifferently. And that had been his attitude the entire flight: indifferent. He and those stupid “Delicious!” sounds coming from his phone were driving me crazy. Albert wasn’t any better company. He was flipping through a Cosmo in the row of seats at the front of the plane. I hadn’t seen Ronan in four months. I’d been burning up for eight hours waiting for him to touch me, kiss me, and drag me to the convenient bed in the back. But he hadn’t done any of that. When I got tired of waiting, I’d straddled his lap, ran my lips down his neck, and cupped his erection as it grew harder beneath my hand. I thought I was finally going to get what I wanted, but then he shoved me off
Lost in Moscow's Secret 1
MILABREATH RAGGED FROM THE RUN, I dropped my heels on the grass and padded barefoot across our manicured lawn, not stopping until I’d climbed onto the rocky embankment and felt the cool waves lapping at my toes and the hem of my evening dress. I panted as sweat glistened on my skin beneath the heavy moon. Agentle breeze tousled my long hair, rustling the palmtrees and my lacy cap sleeves, but the paradise constrained me as tightly as the Dior belt around my waist.The five-mile run wasn’t enough to shake the combustible feeling that expanded inside—though, as always, the sea held me back.I itched to rip the pearls from my neck, to tear my dress to shreds like Cinderella’s stepsisters had, but doing so would demolish a facade I’d maintained for so long I wasn’t sure what lay beneath. So, instead, I dug my French-tipped nails into my palms.There had to be more than this, more than a world behind The Moorings’ gates, but the desire for more than a life of opulence inflated a kernel of
Lost in Moscow's Secret 2
MILAI WADED IN A PILE of clothes, half-bohemian, half-sophisticated socialite. The former, I felt compelled to buy but never wore. Papa seemed quietly disapproving of anything yellow and nonconformist, and I took peace signs seriously.Until now, apparently, as I packed colors brighter than the sun into an old cheerleading duffle bag. I wasn’t home free of The Moorings yet, so I dressed the part in a loose blouse, checker-printcigarette pants, and white ankle boots. I caught my reflection in the mirror: a taller, less-pink version of Elle Woods in Legally Blonde staring back.On my way to the door, I stopped to unclasp my pearl necklace and dropped it into my jewelry box. Then, I wound up the ballerina, setting her on a lonely pirouette, before I tiptoed down the stairs at three a.m.Passing Ivan’s bedroomdoor, I stilled when a very feminine moan sounded on the other side. Ivan wasn’t a Don Juan, but neither was he celibate. Sometimes, during my papa’s absences, I’d come down to br
Lost in Moscow's Secret 3
MILA AS THE DEADBOLT LOCKED INTO place, I wondered what happened to good ol’Russian hospitality. They hadn’t even offered me anything to eat. Practically blasphemous, I’d learned from growing up in a Russian household, especially froma couple who seemed very in touch with their religious side.With the weight of my papa’s secret sitting heavy on my heart and the obvious fact I wasn’t welcome here, a pathetic part of me wanted to listen and just go home. But if I returned now . . .I’d dream. I’d wonder.I’d carry on existing.And I wanted to live for a change. Just for a few days. Before The Moorings sucked me back into its passionless hole. Before I married Carter Kingston, had two-point-five kids, and drowned in social luncheons, pastel-colored cardigans, and ropes of pearls.The iron gate swung back and forth in the icy breeze. Squeeaak.Clank. Squeeaak. Clank.I slipped my duffle bag over my shoulder,
Lost in Moscow's Secret 4
RUSSIAN VOICES, ONE CONCERNED, ONE rough and low, crept into my subconscious. Papa only spoke fluent Russian when he had Russian guests over, but why were they in my room?It was weird. And rude.I sighed, reaching to pull the sheets over my head to shut out the noise. Instead, my hand slid over the familiar feel of one of my papa’s suit jackets, wool and cashmere. But something was different. This one smelled like pine and cinnamon with a hint of cigar smoke. There was something very unfatherly about the scent, and it was what convinced me to open my eyes.I groaned as a sharp pain shot through my skull.“Khorosho, ty vstala,” a silver-haired man said, pulling a high-back leather chair from a large mahogany desk toward me. Square-framed glasses. White button-up. Black slacks. A cold sweat spread through me as I stared at the stethoscope around his neck.Some people had nightmares about falling, or public nudity, or ghosts. Mine was wakin
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His voice was so rough and soft. So composed and accented. So lenient in its delivery it slipped beneath my skin, melting the tension in my body like butter. I bet people went out of their way to listen to this man talk.“Do you have any pain besides your head?” I nodded, staring at him.Asmile touched his lips. “Where?” “My side.”Ronan rose to his full height. As he and the doctor spoke, a boy—the one I saw carrying a crate of liquor—entered the room with my duffle bag in his hands. He dropped it beside the couch and sent a glance of disgust my way.Ronan eyed himin silent warning. The boy swallowed and turned to walk out of the room. “Kirill would like to take a look at you, if you will let him.”I nodded.When Ronan headed to the door, I got to my feet, fighting a spell of dizziness at the sudden move. “Wait,” I blurted. “Where are you going?”He turned his head to study me with cautious eyes. “Giving you some privac
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ICRUNCHED ONE OF THOSE pills between my teeth, hoping for relief, and then dug through my duffle bag for my phone. That is, until I remembered it was in my coat pocket, which currently lay in a frigid Russian alley. It was surprising they hadn’t found it considering my bag must have been a couple of blocks away, and my coat should be near their back door.Aknock sounded, and a redhead no older than seventeen, wearing a plain white dress, entered the room. She kept her eyes lowered as she set a bowl of soup and a slice of bread on a side table near the couch. I thanked her and asked if she knew what time it was, but from the way she didn’t even acknowledge I spoke before she turned and walked out of the room, I guessed she must not speak English. Or at all.The soup smelled so good it made my mouth water, but it looked like solyanka, which meant it contained meat. I’d been a vegan since I watched a meatpacking documentary in junior high. Borya hated it, but he alway
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