XV: (Fifteen) (War of Roses Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  So I stall.

  Breathe, Ellen. My lungs expand to obey my old mantra, and for the first time in years, my brain replays snippets of the creature who originally inspired it. Not Robert, though he is similar in shape. A man. A boy. Someone who didn’t belong, his eyes catlike in the darkness.

  “You breathe,” he hissed to me. “You don’t think. Don’t feel. Just breathe...”

  A noise breaks my concentration, dragging me back to the present. Night must have fallen. I can barely see the leaves on the wallpaper anymore when Vanya finally returns. I recognize his unsteady gait even before his hand slams against the top of my cage.

  “If I let you out, you obey me. No questions. No complaints. Understand? Try to run and Mischa will be your least concern.”

  I nod. At the mere hint of freedom, my muscles throb in torment, and I unfurl my sore limbs the moment I hear the latch disengage.

  “Slow,” Vanya barks as I twist in the narrow space and pull myself through the cage’s opening. “Slow…wait—”

  I freeze, crouched at his feet while my eyes struggle to adjust to the shadow.

  “Here. Put this on.”

  Something soft brushes my cheek. I reach up, trying to decipher the garment through touch alone. It’s thin. Satin? It sports sleeves like a shirt but opens in the center and seems long enough to cover me at least to my knees.

  “It’s the only thing I could find,” Vanya adds almost apologetically. “Hurry up. Then follow me and keep your head down.”

  He shifts his weight, blocking me from sight—either on purpose or accidentally—as I scramble into what I quickly realize is a robe. After tying the thin sash around my waist, I rise to my feet, forced to cling to the wall for balance. Movement is painful, but I grit my teeth and face Vanya without swaying. He towers above me, almost as tall as his leader. After casting me an appraising glance, he heads for a doorway, leaving me to follow.

  Mischa may be the leader here, but I suspect that Vanya isn’t too far behind him in their hierarchy. There’s respect conveyed in the fact that no one questions him as he leads me from the room and down a narrow hallway.

  A bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminates a row of closed doors and more peeling wallpaper. Eventually, Vanya stops beside one door and opens it. “Use it,” he says, jerking his chin toward the opening.

  A bathroom lurks beyond, small and cramped, but containing a toilet at least and a rusted sink. I nearly collapse with relief, but when I attempt to close the door, Vanya shakes his head.

  “Not all the way. I won’t look,” he adds when I stiffen. “Go on.”

  My body is in too much distress to give a damn if he does watch. Crouching as low over the toilet as I dare, I relieve myself. As my bladder empties, I have no choice but to face the woman watching me from the dust-covered mirror above the sink. She’s pale, her hair hanging wild around her shoulders. A sheer black robe doesn’t shield much of her body. Not its nakedness. Not its scars.

  “If you’re done, hurry up,” Vanya warns.

  Obediently, I wipe and flush the rickety toilet only to realize that the plumbing must have given out years ago. My waste just sits there, mingling with others I didn’t notice in my haste. Vomit surges up my throat, but I manage to choke it down and stagger to the sink to wash my hands. There’s soap at least. With my wet fingers, I slick the worst of my tangled curls back before tapping on the door to convey that I’m finished.

  When I creep into the hallway, Vanya casts me a single glance before heading farther down the hall. We reach another doorway that opens onto a room that might have been a kitchen once. Now, there’s too much clutter to tell. Boxes crowd the few countertops. The stove has been gutted, which leaves an empty space now filled with bags of garbage. The only item in working condition appears to be a stained refrigerator with duct tape on the sides to seal it. Vanya has to try twice to heave it open only to reveal that it contains just a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread.

  “Here.” He breaks off a slice and hands it to me. After rummaging through the chaos scattered over the counter, he surfaces with a glass and fills it with water.

  I accept both, genuinely grateful. “Thank you—”

  “Don’t thank me,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the food in my hands. “Hurry up and eat.”

  I devour the bread in three bites and down the water just as quickly. Now that the shock of my predicament has set in, horror and familiarity slowly replace the fear. I’ve been a prisoner before. I know the role to play. I also know that most captors don’t offer their prey a shred of dignity—as much as can be found in a robe and some privacy to use the restroom—or let them from their cell for a walk. Not without a reason.

  Why? Guilt? I try to suss out his motives as I gingerly rub my hands together to scrape the crumbs from them. The old man is good at containing his secrets, however. I discern nothing from his stern expression. Just the cold knowledge that, as much as I’m trying to understand him, he’s already unraveled me.

  “What’s your name?” he demands, catching my probing stare.

  My heart races at the question. Common sense warns me to lie. But…kindness is such a rare gift, deserving of the same in return. Even Robert hasn’t broken me beyond that point.

  “My name is—”

  “Here you are.”

  My body reacts to the dangerously soft voice before I turn and see him there, towering in the doorway. Mischa.

  Slowly, his eyes flicker from me to Vanya, but the old man doesn’t draw half of the rage building in his gaze. “I told you to bring her to me,” he says. Strained politeness keeps his voice above that unsettling growl.

  My brain scrambles to place it. Respect?

  “You did,” Vanya says, nodding in deference, but there’s nothing at all submissive about his posture. He snatches the cup from my grip and refills it with water from the still open fridge. When he places it in my grasp, Mischa’s irises darken, honing in on my throat and the black robe drawn tight around me.

  “Bring her,” he snarls, no longer sounding as composed as he did before. “Now.”

  “When she finishes,” Vanya says calmly. To me, he crooks his fingers in the universal symbol for hurry up.

  “Vanya—”

  “She’ll be better able to withstand your methods on a full stomach, don’t you think?” It’s not so much a suggestion as it is an insinuation of something.

  Whatever it is makes the younger man flinch. “Are you challenging me, Ivan?”

  My throat contracts at the lethality of those words. How he says them. Challenge. As if it’s the ultimate crime.

  “No.” Beside me, Vanya stiffens, lowering his head. “Of course not, Pakhan.”

  “Good.” Two steps bring Mischa closer. Heavy, wide steps that rattle the peeling tiled floor. “Then she can finish.”

  It’s a dare. One that haunts me as my gaze reconnects with Vanya’s. He motions for me to drink and I robotically gulp from the glass. The moment I’ve drained it, Mischa advances. From the corner of my eye, I see him reach for me, but the ferocity of his grip catches me off guard. I stagger into the counter, knocking an unseen array of objects to the floor. The glass slips from my grasp. Shatters. Something pierces the sole of my right foot in a barrage of searing pain, but I’m dragged forward without mercy. Back down the hallway. Through the room with the cage. Beyond that. Stairs. Hallway. Silence. Room.

  Shoved forward, I struggle to make out my surroundings. A bed is paces away, near a rickety dresser positioned by the window. Above, a naked light bulb casts pale light and flickering shadows. Behind me, the door closes.

  And my tormentor advances as though he has all the time in the world to play this next phase of the game. Without warning, he runs his hand along my shoulder. His touch burns beneath the thin fabric of the robe and I jump back, preparing to withstand any assault. Anything but the callous swipe that dislodges the garment from behind.

  “Have you thought about my offer?” he wonders as I s
tiffen.

  I have: the “truth” in exchange for a quick death. How utterly used to violence he must be to think that those are tempting odds. And, to him, they are. There’s no mistaking that.

  He will kill you quickly, Vanya insisted as if that was somehow the preferable outcome to this nightmare.

  Maybe it is.

  Rather than speak, I say nothing. It’s stifling in this room. The window is nailed shut, preventing any circulation. Sweat springs beneath my armpits and along my neck. He’s perspiring as well. The stench of salt seeps from his pores, but it’s not potent enough to reek.

  I’m too busy trying to place his position that I miss the next move he makes. A shove to my hip nudges me closer to the bed. The mattress brushes my knees. The sheets covering it are bunched in the middle as if slept in. More salt wafts from them, and something else… Male. Musk. Has he slept here?

  “I warned you once never to ignore me,” he hisses against the nape of my neck before shoving me once again.

  I manage to throw my hands out at the last second, catching my fall. The position gives me enough leverage to twist onto my side so that I can face him. It’s a habit I learned from Robert. Watching him is always my only defense. Only then could I guess his next move.

  But this man is unreadable. When he snatches at my hip, I don’t fight, letting him wrench the fabric of my robe loose. My only action is to flex my shoulders so that he can remove the garment without tearing it—out of courtesy to Vanya for sparing it. Within seconds, the black satin is in his fist before being tossed onto the floor.

  Again, he eyes my body with unabashed interest—but I can’t help but notice that his gaze doesn’t assault the places where I’m used to being ogled. He eyes my stomach, not my breasts. My arms. Thighs. I know why. I can feel the marks throbbing after the rough treatment of the past twenty-four hours, but I don’t dare focus on them.

  I watch him instead. His wounds are much older than mine, scarred over and silvery with age. Battle scars. Gunshot wounds. He reminds me of the target in the fields where Robert likes to practice shooting. Dinged and marred but still unbroken.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, flicking the words at me one by one. Language to him is a projectile, used to inflict damage.

  I cower. Everything I would have spilled easily to Vanya sticks in my throat.

  Mischa lets nearly a minute go by before he entertains the fact that I might have disobeyed him. It amuses him rather than angers. His lips quirk around the edges, his eyelids lowering. With one knee, he nudges my right leg, making the space between both of them wider. A lazy shift of his weight allows him to dominate that vacant space. But he’s too big. My inner thighs chafe against the coarse fabric of his pants. The air catches in my chest.

  Vanya’s warning becomes a mocking taunt: He won’t fuck you, but he’ll still hit you. He sounded sincere, but I know men. I learned long ago how to recognize the subtle ways their bodies tense. How their breathing changes when logic ends and lust begins.

  But it’s not my body that excites him.

  It’s the silence. The longer it extends between us, the bigger he seems, towering above. Defiance in general is unacceptable to most men like him. But from a woman?

  He laughs, almost to himself: an unstable, guttural sound. “Did you not hear me, Little One?” Again, his fingers come to dance the length of my hip, but this time, they don’t inspect the injuries there. They fan out, pressing firmly. Feeling. “He’s treated you roughly. I can tell.”

  His hand is big enough to circle my entire thigh. Sensing the danger enclosed in his palm, I flinch, and in retaliation, the tips of his nails rake a path to my knee.

  “But trust me: I can be worse. Tell me your name.”

  My lips flutter, but nothing comes out. Inhaling, I try again. Again. My tongue frantically moistens my lips as my chest heaves, seeking air. My name is…

  Before I can form the words, his knee strikes the mattress near my hip, rattling the bed frame. The way he’s positioned brings his thigh overtop mine, crushing me down. Heat sears, mingling with the sweat slicking my skin. It’s too hot. Can’t breathe…

  “Tell me your name, Little One.” He hasn’t fully mounted me yet, remaining crouched instead. “Tell me what you know of Robert’s plans and this will end for you. I swear it.” He means it—as much as a man like him can mean anything. This is his idea of mercy: a painless death. “But if you don’t…”

  A gasp rips from my chest as he adjusts his knee, lifting it from the bed only to reposition it directly between my legs. He slams it forward, nudging my mound.

  “I will make you wish I’d only killed you.”

  My vision swims as my lips struggle to part. My name is right there, wavering on the tip of my tongue. I try as hard as I can to spit it out. Ellen… Ellen…

  But the only sound to reach my ears is the ominous creaking of the bed frame. The hand on my thigh becomes a razor, nails sinking deep. Scouring. Using that grip for leverage, he brings his weight forward, mounting me fully, lowering his chest against mine. My nipples scrape the cotton of his shirt while his breath assaults my cheek, scorching a trail down to my throat. He’s too close. Too heavy. Too…raw.

  There’s no disguising the muscle straining beneath his clothing. Poor Vanya doesn’t know his master as well as he thinks.

  He’s hard. Not hard enough to be of much use—at least not yet—but hard enough to feel against my thigh, too real for comfort. My thoughts scatter. Instinct kicks in. With Robert, there is only one way to survive his assaults: lie there motionless. Never react. Let him finish quickly. Lick my wounds in peace.

  My body is already complying with the first step of that routine. I go limp, conforming beneath the stranger’s body. My eyes focus somewhere beyond his head. I don’t think. I don’t feel. I just endure…

  “Look at me.”

  An unexpected sensation disrupts my mental clarity. Fire. Unfamiliar heat trickles between my legs: his hand. Each knuckle traces the outlines of my mound. Once. Twice. I tense, anticipating brutality: for him to jam them in at once. Stretch me open. Prove his point.

  Anything but another slow, teasing swipe that tugs on my spine like a string. Too harsh. Too sharp. Too soft.

  “Look at me, Little One.” He snarls the command into my ear, bringing his mouth so close that his teeth clip my earlobe.

  The pain won’t let me escape. It buzzes through my nerves like a fly until I have no choice. My vision refocuses, bringing his features into stark relief.

  “You think I don’t know?” he wonders coldly. “You think I can’t see the abuse on you? You don’t fear pain.” He pinches my hip as if to prove it, rousing a deep, sharp ache that makes me shiver. “But there are some things worse than pain, Little One. Betrayals that only your body can commit against you. I won’t just hurt you. I can make you enjoy what I do to you.”

  It’s an almost cartoonish threat, but he never laughs. There’s a sudden darkness to his features that wasn’t there before. A harsh, knowing look that makes a part of me clench in despair. God, it’s familiar. Understanding? The same expression worn by the boy who taught me how to endure agony in silence all those years ago.

  He knows. What I’ve been through—or at least what he could discern from my scars. Even worse, he seems to think he can use that trauma against me. It’s as laughable a boast as it is terrifying.

  Breathe, Ellen. I make myself limp again, building an invisible wall between my body and my thoughts. I succeed. I feel nothing. Hear nothing. Just silence and…

  Wet. Sliding along my breast, slicking the nipple. His thumb. While I watch, he brings the digit to his tongue and licks along the edge, wetting it further. Then he lowers it to my nipple again, letting his saliva merge with sweat. Disgust traps the air in my lungs, suffocating me during the long, deliberate journey he travels down the curve of my rib cage.

  “W-what are you doing?” No! My own mental plea can’t keep the words from leaving my throat. It’s al
ready too late.

  He heard me, letting his fingers still against my torso. “So you can speak,” he murmurs. “What a shame. I was beginning to suspect that your master had the perfect woman. Beautiful and quiet as a fucking mouse.”

  Vodka still taints his breath, but he isn’t drunk. The look in his eyes is too hardened. Too steady. For the first time, I see the hint of real lust lurking in his heavy-lidded gaze. Chuckling, he slides his palm down to my hip and then underneath, cupping my buttock. My skin crawls. I can’t look at him. The ceiling. Feel nothing. Breathe, Ellen—

  “No.” His free hand latches onto my scalp, forcing my face toward his and those soulless eyes. “You want to end this? Give me what I want. Or I’ll just take it. ”

  He continues to touch me—and there is no blocking him out. Rough. Hard. Nails. Fingertips. My mind reels at how he interchanges brutality with…softness? Almost like a child flickering a light switch to disorient those trapped inside a locked room.

  “I underestimated you,” he proclaims, frowning as if disappointed by the fact. “Your master trained you too well.”

  Master. Trained. I can’t explain the reaction those words set off in me. Heart stopping. Chilling. Mainly, they just trigger memories. Robert. Those awful nights. The hateful things he made me feel. Enduring him. Suffering him.

  He never trained me to withstand him. All I had to cling to was one pathetic word. Breathe.

  “Don’t ignore me.” My captor touches me again, grazing me more firmly with ragged nails. “I’ve been patient enough—”

  “Stop.” A stranger utters that plea—not me. I rarely say that word anymore. Only when Robert’s at his worst. His cruelest. When I can barely think through the pain. But all I feel now is…

  More heat prickling down my spine, fading between my legs. It’s more alarming than pain. Too foreign to place. My hips roll of their own accord, desperate to escape it.