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

by Lana Sky

  The world spins when I do. Pain and exhaustion play a violent game for supremacy over my battered body.

  I stagger on my feet when he takes my hand and drags me into the hall. Rather than head for the stairs, he shoves me toward the room next door. Oh, God. It’s the one with the bed and another window, nailed shut. A mocking view of an empty field greets me beyond it. Outside, the sky is a dreary, stormy gray. How many days has it been so far? I can’t tell.

  “Don’t get any cute ideas, Little One.” Mischa cups my chin, forcing me to face him. “In fact…I dare you to run from me.”

  His eyes glow at the threat of a chase. Here and now, I make the decision never to take him up on that challenge.

  “You do look like her. You’re just as beautiful,” he admits, almost to himself. His finger drifts up my jawline and comes away red. Meeting my gaze, he swipes his tongue along the pad of it. “But are you worth as much?”

  His hands capture the ends of my robe. Aware of my terror, he takes his time, peeling the panels back, relishing how I shudder with every inch of skin revealed. When he finally undoes the sash, I don’t resist. I lift my arms, letting him strip me down to nothing.

  Then I watch him toss the satin onto the floor.

  His gaze sweeps over my body, shamelessly logging every flaw and pore. Beautiful like Briar, he said? I’m not sure if he still has that opinion by the time our eyes reconnect.

  “Lie down.”

  His voice seizes control of my limbs, and I take two steps back until my calves strike the mattress. Still facing him, I start to lower myself, but he frowns, irritated. Then he crosses the distance between us and shoves me down himself. Dazed, I blink up at the ceiling, tasting more blood on my tongue as wetness coats my neck. I’ll ruin his sheets, but something tells me he doesn’t mind.

  He watches me bleed, nodding in satisfaction. “I want you to think about your husband, Little One,” he says. “I want you to remember every twisted, sordid thing he’s done to your body. Every way he’s used you…”

  It’s a terrible request. My mind has more than enough ammunition to spawn a million nightmares. But does he know that? Looking at him, I can’t tell. Maybe consent is such a foreign concept to him that he takes it for granted that most men ignore it altogether.

  “Now…imagine me doing those things to you. All of them. Every last one.” The malice in his voice doesn’t match the involuntary way his eyes flicker across my naked chest. Quickly. As if nothing holds his interest—or he doesn’t want it to. “Think about it until I come back and I hope you reconsider your silence.”

  Despair renders me boneless as he leaves the room, locking the door behind him. Then…something twisted enough to call amusement sets in. Imagine him as Robert? It’s as easy as swapping out one monster for another. Or is it?

  My eyes shut against the memories, but nothing short of unconsciousness can keep them at bay. My husband dishes out pain in exchange for his pleasure, and he never let me forget my role: his. When he touches me, I feel nothing but shame. Fear. Panic.

  Never…fire. This man inspires a new terror I don’t know how to fathom. I’ve grown so used to Robert. I can endure his routine. I can survive his games—Mischa is a dangerous anomaly. Were I given the choice between the two of them, is it really that hard to pick who I’d prefer?

  No. I’d pick Robert. The known is always better than the unknown.

  Always.

  CHAPTER 9

  T he lumpy mattress beneath me reeks of mold, but I can’t resist its comfort for long. When my eyes flutter open to a darkened room, I’m not sure how much time has passed. An hour? Longer? The darkness beyond the window doesn’t reveal any answers. Neither do my sore, aching limbs, which throb as though I never slept at all.

  My face, however, feels stiff. Sticky. The wounds have stopped bleeding from what I can tell, but each laceration burns with a new kind of pain. Robert always took care never to scar my face. He’d strike me, but always with an open hand.

  What would he think to see me so ruined?

  I trace the wounds with my finger, following the jagged contours that form my new title. Fifteen. XV. Does the reality of a new scar sadden me? I can’t tell. Every instinct in my body warns that I won’t live long enough to care.

  As if the thought of mortality is their cue, footsteps approach the room. His. I sense him behind the door seconds later, lingering there as if aware of the unbearable anticipation building in my body.

  He savors it. How it gets harder to breathe. How my nipples tighten in the still air, knowing that they’ll be under his scrutiny soon. Humiliation is his greatest weapon, and he hones it for what feels like hours on my already frayed nerves.

  “Get up.”

  I nearly sigh in relief when he finally kicks the door open and switches an overhead light on. Rather than smug, he looks…cold.

  “This is my last offer of mercy: Will you tell me what you know of Robert Winthorp?”

  I swallow down a lump of dread. “I know nothing.”

  “Fine.” An expression distorts his mouth, which causes my heart to sink. Disappointment? “Then get dressed.” He tosses something onto the floor near the bed.

  Then I realize the position I’m in. How he finds me: twisted in the sheets on my side, my hair tangled around my shoulders. In sleep, my body forgot all about being a prisoner, seeking out the most comfortable position.

  I have to take my time detangling my limbs before I can stand. My cheeks burn from more than just pain and I don’t dare look up to see his reaction.

  Instead, I stoop for the pile of fabric nearby. It’s soft. Not a robe, but a thin negligee—though, where Vanya gave me clothing to preserve my modesty, this black creation of lace and silk is meant to entice. Or shame.

  “Put it on.”

  I do without comment, surprised that the garment reaches past my knees. When Mischa observes me, I don’t blush. Frowning, he turns away, shrugging his shoulder in a silent command for me to follow.

  The cramped house is shrouded in darkness. I can hear other men moving throughout, but with Mischa in front of me, my vision is reduced to what little of the floor separates us. We pass through a doorway somewhere on the lower level and then descend a set of wooden stairs hammered into a concrete wall. A basement. My new cell?

  There’s little light here, but enough to make out another card table in the corner, where two men are sitting. One of them I recognize. Xavier, the man with the briefcase filled with money. He’s wearing another suit and sitting tall, his hands folded neatly on his lap.

  Sitting beside him, a balding stranger is wearing a black dress shirt and slacks. He eyes me boldly, drinking in the battered flesh beneath the hem of my shift. A pink tongue shoots out along his lips and he nods to no one in particular.

  “I see what you mean, Pakhan,” he says to Mischa. “They could be twins. But ah!” He tsks between his teeth and sadly shakes his head. “You’ve marred her already.”

  “Which shouldn’t keep you from fucking her.”

  The words stop me dead in my tracks—not that my captor notices. He approaches the table while I shy back against the wall, pressing myself against the concrete.

  “Name your price,” Mischa demands, sending my heart into a frantic race against my thoughts. Fucking her. Fucking her.

  The balding man smirks and casts another searing glance in my direction. Then he sighs, turning back to Xavier. “Business first. Tell your accountant here that my goods still sell for their going rate.”

  Mischa nods and Xavier lifts yet another briefcase from the floor and places it onto the table. This time, he sets something square, made of gray plastic, down as well. A scale of some kind? When he withdraws a stack of money, he removes the rubber band and sets the bills on the electronic device. He does that with five whole stacks and then looks to Mischa as if for approval.

  “Take your goddamn blood money, Boris,” Mischa snaps, but his voice lacks any real passion. When he cocks his head in my
direction, my heart sputters. I make out only a sliver of his expression, the rest of his face is bathed in shadow. “Now, name your price.”

  For me.

  Boris sits back and forms a steeple with his fingers as if thinking over the amount—but I can tell he already has a price in mind. “Just one night with Robert’s bitch? Five thousand.”

  Mischa shrugs. “Done.” There’s something in how he says that word that sends alarm shooting down my spine. Distracted. Disinterested. There’s no mocking ownership of his captive. No haggling. Like he’s in a hurry to foist his cruelty onto someone else.

  Someone who can do the job, a part of me whispers.

  “Where can I have her?” Boris wonders as Xavier begins to reorganize his stacks of bills. Maybe focusing on him is the only way I can keep any sanity. His hands. How they shake…

  “Upstairs,” Mischa commands, his voice faint and distorted.

  Blood rushes through my ears, counting the seconds that tick by. One heartbeat. Another. There’s no time to think. Just survive.

  Breathe, Ellen. Move, Ellen!

  “W-wait!” I stagger forward, stupidly grasping Mischa’s forearm.

  His reaction is near instantaneous. Wham! I’m on my knees, enthralled by a million stars bouncing across my vision. They sparkle as my fingers clutch the right side of my face. It’s numb. I taste blood. My ears ring.

  “Take her upstairs,” Mischa snarls. “Get her the fuck out of my sight—”

  “No!” I move on instinct, following the sound of his voice with my fingers. They brush scalding muscle hidden beneath harsh material. His hip? “Wait!” The world swims around me as I stagger to my feet. Speaking is suddenly an ordeal. My jaw won’t move the way it should, and every attempt sounds thick. Muted. “Wait. I can be of more use to you than—”

  A hand clenches my throat, shoving me back against the wall. Mischa’s. He pins me there without mercy, his face a terrifying snarl. There’s no life in his eyes. Just darkness. Rage. Pain. “You’re lucky I haven’t killed you—”

  “I can be more useful to you than as a whore,” I rasp, fighting against my own tongue to sound intelligible. Human. He’s reduced me to a creature that spits blood when she talks. My vision is blurred in my right eye. He’s a smeared specter of light and shadow, but fear is a funny thing. It turns out to be no match against a deeper, more ingrained instinct: survival. “I can help you—”

  “Shut up!” His fingers tighten, cutting off all air.

  There’s only enough left in my throat for two words. “He’s…cheated…”

  Confusion. It flits across his face so quickly that I almost miss it. But then his grip loosens and I don’t wait for him to change his mind.

  “He’s cheated you,” I croak, jerking my chin toward the table. “There’s something wrong with the money—”

  “Bitch.” Mischa laughs, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “You have permission to use force with her,” he tells Boris from over his shoulder. “This whore has a smart little mouth.”

  “Just don’t damage it too much,” Boris replies. “You hit her again and I’ll knock a grand off my price—”

  “Listen to me!”

  Shock registers across my captor’s face, which is how I realize I screamed at him. Pleaded. Listen!

  I’ve never said that to anyone. There was no use before. Ellen Winthorp was either a doll on display or a secret to be hidden. She had nothing to say and even fewer people who might care to hear it.

  He has no choice but to listen to me now.

  “I saw him,” I blurt, forcing out the words as quickly as I can. “The bills. Ask him to weigh them—”

  “Enough!” Mischa snarls. “I suggest you shut the fuck up—”

  “Ask him to weigh the damn money!” I’m panting with the effort it takes to speak. My chest hurts. My face is a conflicting mixture of searing fire and throbbing ice. My eye must be swelling. It’s impossible to keep it open, which gives me only a fraction of my normal field of vision to gauge his reaction from. By his side, his hand clenches into a fist and I stiffen in anticipation of the next blow. “Please—”

  “Xavier,” he snarls to the man at the table. “Do you have a different scale?”

  The man fidgets, tugging on the collar of his suit. “Of course. Why?”

  Mischa’s eyes narrow into slivers. “Take it out.”

  When he turns, he drags me by my hair and shoves me against the table, rattling the bills stacked neatly there. “Show me.”

  Xavier recoils as my blood speckles the pristine rows of dollar bills. “What in God’s name?”

  Mischa doesn’t answer him. He speaks only to me, twisting his fingers painfully through my hair. “Show me.”

  I reach for bills at random, searching for any clue as to their value. Something subtle…. Or maybe I missed it? No, there. I lift a bill with a slight discoloration from the rest. Even through blurred, unfocused vision, I notice the abnormality. The green is a shade too bright, and the bill feels different from how it should. Brittle.

  “Th-this one.” I give the bill to Mischa, who hesitates only a second before snatching it.

  “Weigh it,” he tells Xavier, but the other man just laughs.

  “Pakhan? Are you seriously humoring this—”

  “Now.” Mischa slams the bill onto the table so hard that the legs buckle, toppling over what precarious stacks of money remain. “Weigh. It.”

  Slowly, Xavier places it onto one side of an old-fashioned metal scale. He reaches for another bill, but I shake my head and fumble through the crumpled, blood-soaked paper myself.

  Finally, my fingers find what I’m searching for. “This one.”

  Without a word, Mischa jerks his chin toward the scale, and I place the bill on the other end. Droplets of blood speckle both sides, but there is no mistaking the fact that one bill is obviously heavier than the other. The scale tilts a fraction of an inch.

  And, suddenly, the air in the room loses all sense of stiff professionalism. Nothing riles men like money.

  “Th-the bitch got them wet,” Xavier says, his voice wavering only slightly. “Of course that will skew the—”

  “Do it again.” At his normal volume, Mischa sounds gruff. Dangerous. Now? Thunder resonates in every word, echoing down my spine. His fingers tighten around a chunk of my hair to convey a warning. If you are wrong, I will kill you. “Do it,” he commands when Xavier hesitates. “But she chooses.”

  I blink my good eye and put all of my energy into focusing on the sea of green beneath my fingertips. Am I right? Have I just gambled my life away? The questions crowd my thoughts, nearly drowning out the senses that catch the irregularities in one bill. Another. Desperately, I point a shaking finger at them both and Xavier races to clear the scale before placing them on either side. Slowly. Reluctantly.

  There’s a heart-stopping second as the scale wavers. Up. Down. Balances…dips to one end. Bingo, as Robert would say. Both bills are fresh and clear of blood. There’s no denying it this time.

  As the revelation registers between the three men, the tension boils over. Spills.

  “You thought you could steal from me?” Mischa shoves me aside and circles the table as Xavier backs himself into a corner.

  “I-I don’t know,” Xavier stammers, desperate to find a narrative to save his life.

  But it’s too late. Mischa draws his knife…

  And I turn away, stumbling in the dark until I hit the wall. Guilt. Fear. I feel all of it, inescapable even when I slam my hands over my ears and hum to drown out what happens next. La, la, la—it’s no use. A high-pitched scream pierces my palms, followed by a sickening thud. A violent, choking gurgle.

  Death smells like salt. It reeks in a way that extends beyond just stench. You feel it in your bones. You taste it: the bitter flavor of someone else’s soul escaping on the air. They steal a piece of you along with it.

  Though I doubt this murderer has anything left of his to lose.

  “I
didn’t know,” Boris says, still eerily calm despite the violence. In fact…I get the sense he enjoyed the gruesome show. “You should pick your accountants more carefully, Pakhan,” he adds. “But, if the offer still stands, I’ll take the girl. Of course, we’ll need to send for a new accountant—”

  “Get out.” Mischa looms in the shadows like a specter. His chest heaves erratically as he callously swipes his knife along his pants to clean it while his gaze roves in my direction. “Leave!” he snarls at Boris. “We’ll continue this later. You—” He never takes his eyes off me. The hue of them clashes violently with the red liquid splattered across his chest. Blood reflected in more blood. “Upstairs.”

  Moving blindly, I make it up the basement stairs in seconds and find my way to the main staircase by feel alone. The darkness distorts my already limited vision. Every shadow morphs into the shape of a man chasing me up the steps and into that narrow bedroom.

  Once inside it, I don’t close the door. I creep toward the bed instead, intending to sit on the mattress. I miss and wind up on my knees, pressing my bleeding cheek against the cold floor. My stomach roils, but nothing escapes my abused, sore throat. I don’t know what’s more alarming. The terror I feel? Or how quickly my body is able to process it.

  Breathe, Ellen...

  I inhale noisily, aware of the blood flooding my mouth for the first time. My nose feels tender to the touch. My right eye aches, impossible to open. I can’t tell if the thumping in my ears is my heartbeat or approaching footsteps. Then the light switches on with a hiss, illuminating the puddle of blood growing beneath me.

  “How?” Every step Mischa takes echoes, alarmingly unsteady. He’s lost that smooth, predatory prowl. All that’s left are harsh motion and tension.

  Through a tangled net of my hair, I watch him advance. In one hand, he’s holding Xavier’s briefcase, but the money’s been hastily shoved back in, peeking through gaps in the seal.

  “How the fuck did you know?”

  I don’t have the energy to stand. “Robert,” I admit to the floor, watching my saliva mingle with scarlet. “He…taught me.”