The Vanity of Roses

by Lily White

  “As it stands, Gretchen knows to assign her to the worst this place has to offer, and if Lisbeth so much as whimpers in complaint, then she’ll be given a new job. The mansion is bad enough, but I suspect she’ll be begging to come back here if she were to be dragged to the pit.”

  The bench seat creaked as I pushed to my feet, air rushing in to reshape the padding once my weight was no longer crushing it flat. I had no doubt that Edward and Gretchen would see to it that Lisbeth was punished in my absence, her grating screams driving them to the edge of their tempers within minutes.

  Franklin was the only person who didn’t appear convinced, but I wouldn’t let it bother me.

  “Speaking of, I think I’ll head to the pit myself. There are a few practice matches I’d like to watch. I hear Moritze is introducing his fighters to the arena now that the mess has been cleaned and the ground is solid again.”

  He arched a suspicious brow.

  “I hope you don’t think you’ll be stepping foot into that arena when the fights start again. Not until we have a better idea of how the new fighters behave. You’re far too important to be risking your life for vanity’s sake.”

  Vanity.

  It was the downfall of every member of the Rose family. For some, it was their beauty. For others, their intellect. For me, it was the driving need I had for violence, my hands aching with the need to crush bones.

  I wasn’t worried about the new men Moritze had discovered. Most were common thugs pulled from the streets, no skill inside them other than that they’d learned to survive.

  The arena was a hell of a lot more dangerous than the streets. Especially when two men entered, but only one would remain alive.

  If it hadn’t been for the families that were wiped out on the night of Lisbeth’s ball, Moritze would never have risen up as a power within the circuits. If anything, the man was a bottom-feeder, a leech that played dirty because he didn’t have the balls or the intelligence to compete.

  Every new man he brought to the arena was worse than the last. None lasted long, but that didn’t stop him from continuing to feed the slaughter. He was determined to prove himself as something more than the low level drug runner he’d been ten years ago, his patience thinning with each passing day.

  Refusing to acknowledge what Franklin said, I grinned and grabbed my water bottle to swallow down several throat-relieving gulps.

  “Have fun with Lisbeth today. I’m sure she’ll be so happy to see you.”

  He rolled his eyes. It only caused me to laugh.

  “What should I tell her the debt is from? You and I both know she’ll demand answers.”

  My thoughts went to my childhood, the years of torment, her cruel voice slicing into my skin over and over. I could see Lisbeth clearly, the beauty of her face at odds with the hatred in her heart. My muscles bunched painfully tight over my shoulders, memory beating me down as easily as she had. It didn’t matter that she’d been a child when committing the crimes. It couldn’t matter that ten years had passed since the last time she’d treated me like an abused dog.

  All that mattered was how my mother still remained dead while Lisbeth’s body ran warm.

  There was a price for that, and I planned to extract it. Even if it meant I would suffer in the process.

  Stepping up to Franklin, I caught his stare.

  “She recognized me when I confronted her.”

  “Your point?”

  The corner of my mouth curled, violence painting my veins.

  “That means she’ll know the answers. The second you tell her who runs this house, she’ll understand exactly why she’s been knocked down from being the precious daughter of the family. If she tries to demand we let her go, tell her she had the chance to run. It’s not my fault she chose to return.”

  Nodding his head, Franklin shoved away from the wall and stalked in the direction of the servant’s hall.

  “Good luck,” I joked, just the thought of what he was about to encounter making me laugh.

  His feet stopped in place as he tossed a glare over his shoulder.

  “What was it you used to say to me years ago? Ah, I remember. Fuck off.”

  I was still laughing as he disappeared around a corner.

  Lisbeth was difficult enough to deal with when she had nothing to worry about, but when that woman was pissed off, she was as dangerous as sucking on a live electrical wire.

  Lisbeth

  A puddle of blood had formed at my feet by the time Franklin walked through the door. I was still crumpled against the wall where Callan had left me, my dignity stripped by the way I’d been dragged through halls and tossed in here like a second thought.

  Franklin’s expensive shoes clicked quietly into the room, the doors closing behind him with barely a sound before he turned his grey eyes on me. His expression was unreadable, and I almost laughed at the hesitant way he approached me.

  “You appear to be injured.”

  I crossed my ankles where my legs were stretched out in front of me, not caring that the soles of my feet were shredded and exposed to his view. I wanted him to see what that bastard had done to me.

  Blinking once at the calm tone of his voice, I curled my fingers into my palm to keep from jumping up to strangle him.

  It had only been a few hours that I sat here, but every thought ran through my head, my mother’s voice whispering in warning that Franklin would only finish what my father had started, that I would be served up as an expensive dish to the man that killed everybody that night.

  It didn’t make sense that I’d been dragged to this room first.

  Regardless, all warmth I’d held for my uncle was now buried beneath a mountain of distrust.

  “I hear you’re the person who demanded I be dragged here. If you don’t like the blood then get out.”

  He didn’t react to the venom in my voice. Instead, he crossed the room to open a cabinet and pull out a small box. Crossing the room, he dropped it to the floor beside me.

  “A first aid kit. You should bandage those before Gretchen returns. She won’t care that you’re injured. She’ll simply drag you around to show you what to do, then demand you clean up the bloody footprints when you’re done.”

  My gaze locked to his, eyes narrowed. “Why am I in here?”

  “Because Mr. Rose demanded it.”

  My brows tugged together, anger and confusion blending in my veins until it was pure poison.

  “You are Mr. Rose,” I screamed, not that it mattered to him.

  “I am,” he answered. “But I didn’t take your father’s place as head of the family. As such, I don’t make the decisions. I’m only here now because you asked to see me.”

  None of this was making sense.

  “The only person left in my family is you.”

  “And my adopted son,” he explained.

  All I could see at the mention of an adopted son was a set of dark eyes as cold as ice, boring into me with vengeance written into the amber color, my name traipsing through his thoughts and tied to memories even I was too ashamed to remember.

  Callan didn’t need to speak for me to hear him. His message had been clear in the stern lines of his face, in the grip of his fingers that still burned a throbbing silhouette against my cheeks.

  Who else would Franklin have adopted then the boy he’d looked after when I was young? I refused to ask the question he sat waiting expectantly to hear. Franklin wanted to drop it in my lap like a loaded bomb.

  It was too bad I wouldn’t let him.

  “Callan,” I said, knowing damn well Franklin would nod his head as if the answer should have surprised me. “I thought he was dead.”

  He grinned, the expression as slimy as whatever game he’d played to get me here.

  “You would have liked that, wouldn’t you? He was your favorite toy for so many years, one you treated so poorly. As I’m sure you figured out this morning, Callan survived. Barely.”

  Pausing, Franklin glanced down at his hands a
s if examining his fingernails. His voice was a bare whisper when he asked, “Tell me, Lisbeth, just what did your mother say to you about that night?”

  When I didn’t fill the tense silence between us, he lifted his grey eyes to mine, amused curiosity behind them. I held his stare, refusing to be broken down so that I would spill my guts about what I knew. In many ways, information could be as lethal as a sword, and I wasn’t willing to reveal my weapons at this point.

  Walking to the bed, Franklin unbuttoned his suit jacket and brushed the cheap blanket off before sitting down. With a jut of his chin, he indicated the first aid kit near my feet.

  “I wasn’t joking about tending to your injuries. Gretchen will be back soon. She will drag you around just as you are, Lisbeth. Don’t test the woman’s patience.”

  I would have spit in his direction if my mouth weren’t so dry from screaming. I wouldn’t give in and make myself presentable for anybody. If they wanted to drag me around in my nightgown with bloody feet, then let them.

  Or, I had a better idea.

  “I want to leave. Now. You and your son can keep the bullshit family. I want out.”

  Sympathy softened his eyes, there and then gone again.

  “I’m afraid that won’t happen. You have a debt to pay.”

  “To who? I owe this family nothing.”

  “That remains to be seen. But that’s not what I’m talking about at the moment. You owe a debt to the same man who dragged you here. Or have you so easily forgotten about your childhood? Did he really mean so little?”

  Cold fear slithered down my spine. Its icy fingers chased by a vein of hot anger that seared my skin with one name.

  One regret.

  One shame.

  He wasn’t wrong that I’d treated Callan badly, but he was wrong to think I’d forgotten about those years. I couldn’t close my eyes sometimes without seeing the crouched body of a boy who took my abuse without flinching or complaint. And while I winced to remember how I’d insulted and abused him, at the same time I was screaming for him to grow a spine and fight back for once.

  Be careful what you wish for...

  “Callan, again?”

  Franklin nodded. “He told me you’d know the reason.”

  I wasn’t sure what surprised me more: that Callan was still alive, that he’d taken over as head of the family, or that he actually spoke.

  Was his voice as dark as his eyes? Would the feel of it against my ear be as violent as the grip on my arm when he’d dragged me to this place?

  Fuck them all. They could keep me trapped in this room. They could make all the demands they wanted, but they couldn’t force me to clean up after them and serve their dinners. I wouldn’t bow down for them so they could laugh.

  It wouldn’t fucking happen.

  And if I knew Callan well enough, I knew the bastard would refuse to talk. Maybe not to others, but to me. Perhaps that was my way out of this.

  “Why don’t you run back to Callan and let him know if he has a problem with me, he can walk his ass in here and talk to me about it? Otherwise, I won’t be moving from this spot. Gretchen will have to drag me around by my hair if she wants me to move, but I won’t lift a finger to do as she says. There really is no point for her to come in here, now is there?”

  His eyes burned holes into mine. Not a hot temper like the man who dragged me in here. No, Franklin was as cold as ice in that moment.

  “Be mindful of what you say around here, Lisbeth. Arrangements can be made. Callan is not used to people telling him no.”

  He paused, allowing the idle threat to sink beneath my skin and wrap around my bones.

  “Now, tell me what story your mother gave you for why everybody died that night in the ballroom.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  He gave me a practiced smile, the bullshit curve of the lip that was a talent of every member of the Rose Family. It was a silent fuck you, a whisper of checkmate. It was a kiss of death that promised we weren’t done playing whatever game was laid out in front of us.

  I returned the expression. He only shook his head.

  “Callan will want to know. His mother died that night, and he hasn’t forgiven the people responsible.”

  Laughter shook my shoulders.

  “I take it you didn’t tell him that you and my father were responsible.”

  The arch of a brow told me Franklin was amused by the accusation.

  “Is that what she told you?”

  My lips slapped together in my refusal to say another word about it. I’d told him enough. Had hinted to the truth of my father selling me. Although, I still didn’t know for what purpose.

  Pushing to his feet, Franklin knocked the wrinkles from his pants before lifting his eyes back to me.

  “Have it your way. I’ve given you supplies to tend your feet, and I’ve warned you about what’s coming if you don’t comply with what’s asked of you. Only you can decide how you’ll act.”

  Eyes narrowed to tiny slits, I practically spit my response.

  “I won’t be a fucking maid, Franklin. Not for you and not for Callan.”

  “So be it.”

  Franklin turned to leave, the soles of his leather shoes clicking across the ground with a march of inevitability. This conversation was done. We’d both had our say and had ended at a stalemate.

  Reaching for the door, his fingers brushed the lever, resting there for a second without pushing down. Without turning back to me, he spoke with such a hushed tone, it was like the hiss of a snake in warning.

  “He’ll be happy for your disobedience.”

  Glancing back at me, Franklin met my eyes.

  “I hope you know that. Callan has his ways. Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”

  The sad truth was that none of them understood one simple fact: you can’t make a person do what they don’t want to do.

  Yes, they could beat me. They could lock me in rooms and demand I bend to their will. They could refuse to let me leave the mansion and starve me if that was one of Callan’s ways. But they couldn’t make me scrub and polish. They couldn’t make me play their damn game if I didn’t want to.

  Why would I change my mind and obey?

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

  Franklin nodded his head once before a sigh rolled over his lips and he walked through the door.

  The lock clicked in place.

  The room was returned to silence.

  And I stared at the puddle of blood at my feet.

  I couldn’t deny Franklin was right about one thing: I needed to tend to these wounds.

  Beyond risking infection, I was sitting here in pain. And my disobedience in that was stupid.

  Why punish myself and make their jobs easier?

  Slapping a hand over the first aid kit, I dragged it closer and opened the lid. Thankfully, there was a pair of tweezers, the sharp edges, although small, giving me an idea.

  Callan

  This week couldn’t pass by fast enough. Below me six men sparred in groups of two, their training nowhere near the level of violence they showed in an actual fight. It was enough to keep their reflexes sharp and their bodies honed, but child’s play compared to what occurred in a real fight.

  Weapons weren’t allowed in the pit, so all six practiced in whatever style was most comfortable to them, most of the men skilled in several forms that they mixed and combined until lethal.

  We hadn’t recruited any new fighters in over a year since we hadn’t lost a match in that time. Each man I watched had taken a life, if not several.

  The pit was a work of art in the way it was designed. Reminiscent of the gladiator arenas in Roman days, we’d bought a large warehouse to disguise the ring, and used a fake industrial facade to fool the eye of any person who happened to pass by. Not that there were many. The warehouse wasn’t housed within an industrial section of the city. Instead, it was tucked away on its own, deeper into the rural desert where not many would want to t
ravel.

  Deep within its belly, we’d constructed a large dirt-floored ring sunken in the center. The walls that surrounded it rose up twenty feet, preventing a man from escaping once they’d made the mistake of stepping inside.

  The rules were clear before the fight began: if you enter the pit, you will not leave, not unless you’ve killed your opponent, or your body is dragged out after your defeat. There are no time outs, and you may not turn back.

  That didn’t mean men hadn’t tried.

  Many had begged and pleaded when the fighting began. But there was no mercy given to them in this game, not when so much money was on the line.

  Surrounding the center ring were audience bleachers, leather seats that comfortably sat over a hundred men.

  Every fight brought a full house because what we offered would not be allowed by professional sports and trivial games.

  These fights were real. They were bloody, and they always resulted in a violent death.

  “Moritze is outside with three men. He’s demanding we let him in so he can show them where they’ll fight.”

  Forearms braced over the walls of the center ring, I didn’t turn to meet Benny’s stare.

  “Where they’ll die, you mean?”

  He laughed, the sound like gravel.

  “Where they’ll make us a ton of money. I’m not sure why he thinks showing them the ring will improve their chances. If anything, it would send them running if they were intelligent.”

  The last person I wanted to deal with today was Antonio Moritze. Slimier than Colton, the asshole was desperate to make a name for himself, and he was willing to do so on the shoulders and lives of the victims he kept walking inside this place week after week.

  Holding my fingers at my lips, I whistled to grab the attention of the men below me. They looked up immediately at the sound, their shoulders heaving with labored breath, their skin slick with sweat.

  One tilt of my head toward the gates leading out of the pit, and they left the ring without question.

  “Let him in.”

  Benny left the room on silent steps, a predator like me, he wasn’t one to draw attention.