RPOV

I was trembling as I slammed the bathroom door, struggling to fight down the ugly rage that had coiled itself in my gut. I felt full with fire – shame, hatred, and passion – but also strangely empty and cold. Almost lonely.

I fished my mobile from my jeans, and with shaking fingers, scrolled my way through the dozens of messages I'd left for Lissa, begging her to call, or text, or at the very least, open the bond so I could make sure she was okay. It had been days since I'd heard from her. Angry tears sprang to my eyes unbidden, and I furiously wiped them away. She was supposed to be my best friend. We'd been practically joined at the hip since we were five, and now she was giving me the silent treatment?

I jabbed out a scathing text, and aggressively pressed send.

My eyes passed over Abe's name – he still hadn't replied, although I hadn't been expecting him to drop everything and respond to an angry text from his daughter. I still wasn't sure that he wouldn't show up in Baia to sort it out personally.

Finally, my gaze came to rest on Adrian's messages, and despite the elevated levels of shame as I recalled my reaction to Dimitri in the hallway, my fingers stopped trembling, and I pressed the call button.

I hadn't really lied to Dimitri, I reasoned. Adrian and I had been apart for three weeks, for Christ's sake, and I was an incredibly physical person. Of course I'd been tempted – Dimitri was gorgeous. But it didn't mean anything, and it's not like anything had happened anyway.

Feeling marginally less guilty, I listened to the phone ring out, and Adrian's sarcastic drawl informed me that he was busy, and I'd be better off texting anyway. Making a face, I pulled the phone away from my ear.

Perfect. Everyone was ignoring me. I even doubted that Dimitri would want to talk to me after tonight.

I slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Everything seemed so unfair these days. I knew it was petty – it's not like my problems were remotely significant compared to what had been happening in my life a year ago – but I couldn't shake the feeling of miserable self-pity.

In some ways, knowing that I had no real problems to speak of only made it worse.

I was alone. Even if I could talk to Adrian or Lissa, would they understand?

I closed my eyes, recalling one of the three times I'd attempted to talk to Adrian about my problems. I'd woken from a nightmare of a red-eyed Dimitri, and upon opening my eyes Adrian's room had looked far too much like Galina's estate.

I hadn't planned on explaining why I'd flown out of bed, stake in hand, but he'd pressed the issue until I caved. I knew he'd tried to listen, but his face contorted with a mixture of annoyance and pity every time Dimitri's name fell from my lips, regardless of what followed.

I smiled bitterly. I couldn't blame him. He was still sore over how I'd behaved when Dimitri was restored – distracted and lovesick, as he'd described it. Couldn't give him the time of day, constantly forgetting about our dates. We both knew I'd only slept with him the first time because I was upset about Dimitri leaving, although we pretended it was because I'd realized I was in love with him.

I exhaled heavily, dragging a hand over my face.

My phone buzzed.

I looked down excitedly, my hand clutching reflexively around the black case.

Low battery.

Snarling, I hurled it across the room. Watching it shatter against the white tiles over the bath was actually quite cathartic. Angrily, I pushed all thoughts of Lissa and Adrian from my mind. Whatever they were up to, I didn't give a damn. Rose Hathaway wasn't going to sit on a bathroom floor feeling sorry for herself.

She was going to get drunk.

I pulled myself up using the wall-mounted towel rail and straightened my shirt determinedly. That heavy emptiness was still gnawing at my stomach, and I stormed out of the bathroom intent on giving it some company in the form of alcohol.

Dimitri was sitting at the kitchen table, two small glasses and a bottle of vodka in front of him, like he was expecting me. The defeated, weary look in his eyes told me he expected an argument.

He raised a hand and opened his mouth, apparently about to negotiate a truce.

"Don't even start, Comrade," I growled, throwing myself onto the chair beside him and reaching for a glass. "Let's just drink."

"Not that I'm complaining, but I thought you'd have a few more things to say," he answered amusedly, reaching for his own glass as I downed mine. He smiled at the way I scrunched my nose as that familiar taste burned and tingled its way down my throat.

"I don't think we have anything more to say to each other," I said calmly, pouring myself another shot. "Besides, we'll probably end up lying anyway."

He raised one eyebrow, surprised. "Really? When have I ever lied to you?"

I shrugged, downing my second shot and wincing. I could already feel it going to my head.

"When have you lied to me?" His voice was low, full of ominous curiosity. His mentor voice.

I laughed and pointed at his glass. "Catch up, then we'll talk."

A half-hearted smile played across his face, and he made his next two shots disappear faster than I had. I knew he was probably used to this toxic crap, but the fact that he didn't even flinch had me mildly concerned that he was going to drink me under the table here.

"So, when have you lied to me?" he repeated.

"Heaps," I answered unhelpfully, playing with my empty glass.

He laughed. "You're lying."

"See?" I said cheekily. I was hoping he'd drink before I did – I knew it wasn't a contest, but my competitive nature wasn't going to let him outdrink me tonight.

He seemed to sense a lost cause, and casually poured more liquor into my glass. My stomach sank, but I threw it back without complaint. Dimitri had always been pretty in tune with me – he knew I wasn't handling this vodka as well as I wanted to, and I knew that his own competitive streak was as wide as my own.

"So you really have nothing to say to me?" he pressed after my fifth glass.

"Oh, Comrade, I have plenty of things to say," I replied. The threatening note I'd wanted those words to carry seemed lost in a haze of vodka. His fingers tightened on his glass, and his dark eyes met my own, filled with surprise.

"Really?" he managed after a moment. There was something reckless in his eyes, something that I knew had everything to do with the alcohol. If I were a responsible adult, I would recognise the danger of this situation. I would shut my mouth.

But Rose Hathaway was anything but a responsible adult.

I grinned, full of confidence, my eyes lazily tracing down his bare chest. "You weren't trying to prove a point before," I asserted, knowing what I hadn't known before. "You were lying."

He smiled, dragging his eyes away from mine for a moment to refill our glasses. "Yes," he answered softly.

My heart pounded in my chest, exhilarated and victorious. "I lied. I don't want you because I can't have Adrian." He froze, glass halfway to his lips, expression suspicious. "I want you because I've always wanted you. More than I've ever wanted anyone. Because…"

Whatever the end of my sentence was, Dimitri didn't need to hear it.

His glass hit the table without any regard for the vodka spilling onto the table cloth, his fingers tangling in my hair as his lips crashed down on mine.

He pulled me from my seat into his lap, and I didn't protest. His mouth was burning kisses onto mine like a brand, his fingers in my hair gentle, but holding me like chains against his chest. I broke away as I started to feel dizzy, knowing that kissing him meant I'd forgotten to breathe – forgotten that I needed to. My whole body longed for him against me, more than it wanted anything else.

Maybe it was the vodka, or maybe it was just that being with Dimitri was where I was supposed to be, but the gnawing loneliness in my gut had subsided, and replaced with a fervent hunger.

"We should go upstairs," I whispered, his lips against my throat. My fingers were splayed across his shoulders, drinking in his warmth.

"No."

His mouth didn't break contact from my skin despite his husky response. I settled myself more determinedly in his lap, rubbing against the erection tenting in his pants. He groaned, his kisses growing more frantic.

"No?" I asked, my breath hitching as he kissed a trail down my sternum.

His hands freed themselves from my hair for a moment, traveling down my spine to play with the hem of my shirt.

To my disappointment, he didn't pull it over my head. Instead, he slipped his hands along the bare skin of my back, his fingers pressing me closer to his body as he worked deftly on the clasp of my bra. I rubbed against him again, loving the moans slipping from his lips, vibrating through his chest.

"Please," I begged, his fingers trailing under the cloth band, barely brushing the underside of my breasts. My nipples tightened in anticipation, hardening at the thought of his lips, or his fingers.

"No," he whispered again, but it might as well have been yes, because his hands moved back down to the hem of my shirt and tugged it over my head. My bra quickly followed it to the floor, and the cold air made me shiver.

His hands were warm – unbelievably warm. They caressed down my arms, across my back, pulled my flush against him so that the heat from his chest warmed me down to my toes. My skin prickled under his fingertips as they traced a pattern across my back, his lips once again at my neck, peppering me with kisses.

I leaned away from him, determined to get a yes to fall from that gorgeous mouth. His hands slipped down to my waist, fingers bruising as he guided my hips, the friction pulling gasps and groans from both of us. His eyes were dark and feverish, devouring my body as I ground against him.

"Upstairs," I encouraged again. "Seriously, you know you're going to…"

I trailed off, distracted by his fingers brushing lightly over one nipple, while his tongue circled the other. My hand moved from his shoulder to his hair, tugging it out of its pony tail and dragging my fingers through it.

Something indistinguishable – probably a Russian curse word – fell from his lips in response, before his mouth was back on my mine, hot and desperate, both hands now caressing my breasts, his fingers tugging gently at my nipples.

I felt alive – completely hardwired to respond to his touches, an aching hunger burning between my legs. I wanted his pants off, and I wanted him upstairs. I knew I would feel empty until he was inside of me, his desire-fuelled words filling the air around us, the bed barely holding together while he fucked me, passionate and wild.

Dimitri seemed to have the same idea, his hand sliding down my hips, fumbling with the button of my jeans as I kissed him more urgently, pulling him to his feet.

My ass hit the edge of the kitchen table as he unzipped my pants, pushing them down my legs.

"Upstairs?" he gasped, surrendering as my hand caressed his cock through his pants.

I grinned brazenly and pulled myself onto the table. "No."

My jeans were gone in seconds, followed by the white panties I'd thrown on this morning. His chest pressed against mine, his hands cupping my ass as I dragged my fingers down his back. He pushed me back so that I was lying flat on the table, my legs hooked lazily around his waist. I could feel the cold, wet stain of vodka that Dimitri had spilled earlier against my butt, and the cool sensation made me giggle.

"What's so funny?" he asked lightly, kissing my shoulder playfully.

"I thought Russians believed it was a sin to waste vodka," I jibed.

He shook his head. "No idea where you got that one," he muttered, his voice amused and resigned.

I pulled him closer, crossing my ankles in the small of his back. He smiled slowly, and any reason to giggle subsided as my body responded to the delicious promise in his eyes, and the hard press of his cock against my clit.

I bit my lip, watching his expression darken as he rocked against me.

"Oh, Roza," he murmured. I whimpered excitedly in response. "We shouldn't do this…"

"Do it," I whispered, shifting my hips to rub against his dick, still straining against the fabric of his pants. "Please."

That was all the encouragement he needed.