53

MILA

IWAS BURNING IN THE flames of hell. It was the only thing that explained the heat consuming me from the inside out. Though hell wasn’t supposed to be so inviting . . . or smell like a Russian forest . . . or fit as well as Armani.

It did contain the faint scent of blood, however.

I blinked against the sun streaming in through the window. The bright morning light was only shadowed by Ronan’s body—which was, of course, the embodiment of hellfire itself.

My face was pressed against his chest, and I was pretty sure some dried priest’s blood had rubbed off on my cheek. That should be the last straw to this messed up tête-à-tête, but somehow, I knew the deceased had been a really shitty priest.

One of my legs was intertwined with Ronan’s as I slowly suffocated beneath his heavy thigh, the deadweight of his armaround me, and all the heat. It was bliss.

I’d always disliked my height, though that was before I realized if I was any shorter, I’d never be able to feel so many inches of this