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

by Lana Sky

  “The finest cocaine,” Nicolai declares almost lovingly while eyeing the small, round packets the bag contains. Each one is no larger than a golf ball, rubbery in appearance. “Several uncut grams,” he adds, “all ready to be consumed by one of the wealthiest men in the world. This client tends to be tricky to supply, however. He likes it brought to him directly, and let’s just say he travels within a…select posse. Tonight, they’re at a hotel in the city. I believe you’re familiar with the location?”

  Mischa nods.

  “Excellent. All I need you to do is escort my friend here to the rendezvous. There are clothes for both of you in the bag. Get her through security and leave the cocaine where my client can retrieve it discreetly. Then our debt shall be settled. Oh, and”—Nicolai lifts a packet for inspection—“my new chemist doesn’t know his head from his ass. These packets will last only about an hour, tops, in the body, and that’s roughly how long it will take to reach my client. So speed will be of the essence. Though, if the girl survives, you can have her.” He reaches out, running his fingers through her blond hair. “I’m sure you can find some use for her in one of those clubs of yours.”

  “Where am I meeting this client?” Mischa demands, swatting the suggestion aside.

  Nicolai rattles off what sounds like a random number. “Make sure she swallows the cocaine before you arrive. I’m sure there will be a blockade of some sort, searching vehicles. And, if by some bad turn of luck, you do get caught…”

  “We were never here,” Mischa says. Turning to the girl, he snatches up the duffel. “Come on.”

  In utter silence, she follows us back to the elevator and into the garage, where the van is still idling, ready to pull away the moment we climb into the back seat.

  As the door slams shut, Mischa forms a fist and punches the window. “Damn it!”

  Sandwiched between us, the girl doesn’t react to the outburst, but I flinch. I can’t take my eyes off the duffel. I can’t stop hearing Nicolai’s words echo in my head. If the girl survives, you can keep her.

  Even the Winthorps weren’t so callous when it came to human life. They killed their toys quickly, and when they were no longer of any use.

  And, despite his own brand of cruelty, something tells me that even Mischa is balking at the logistics of this plan. Smuggling drugs in the body of a child so that some rich bastard can get his fix. I almost believe it.

  Until I see his face. He’s lost that fragile calm again. In its absence, darkness consumes all that’s left. Poor Vanya was wrong: There’s nothing human about this creature. Without a word of explanation, he unzips the duffel and rummages through it for a bottle of water, which he shoves aside. Then a packet he hands to the girl. “Put this in your—”

  “No.” My hand flies out before I can stop it, gripping his forearm. No! Some frantic voice at the back of my mind sounds a meaningless warning. But it’s too faint to hear clearly. Don’t do this, Ellen…

  As if used to a routine, the girl obediently grabs the water bottle and tips it toward her mouth, but I snatch it away before she can even down a drop.

  “Don’t.” Reaching across her, Mischa snatches my wrist. “Stay the fuck out of this.”

  My sore body throbs at the warning in his tone. Disobeying him is futile. I know that, but I hold my free hand out anyway.

  “Give it to me,” I demand, nodding toward the packet.

  Words can’t describe how rage distorts his features. His fingers clench, but if he hits me in such a narrow space, the girl will be caught in the middle.

  Lunging toward him, I snatch a packet from the bag and shove it into my mouth. Only sheer force of will can override the instinct to spit it right back out. Swallow, swallow! My gag reflex triggers. Even the water doesn’t help. I have to shove the packet down with shaking fingers, igniting my already tender throat in the process.

  “Fuck!” A heavy hand swipes at my mouth in vain.

  “It’s too late,” I somehow manage to croak as my throat struggles to down the foreign object. “I already swallowed it. Now, give me the rest before…”

  Before time runs out.

  CHAPTER 11

  I barely fit the dress meant for the girl—it’s too damn big. Made of white cotton, its modest neckline is more conservative than anything else I’ve worn over the past few days. But that’s about the only improvement.

  The tailored suit Nicolai provided fits Mischa perfectly, however. Unfairly. With his hair slicked away from his face, he could almost pass for another person. Some rich, cold businessman with enough money to hide whatever secrets his scars might reveal.

  In the right lighting, he could even pass for a Winthorp.

  The only flaw in his ruse is that he drives himself rather than commands a chauffeur, as Robert would. After we changed, he left the girl with his two companions a few streets away from the rendezvous point. They were to call someone from the safe house and then Mischa would return later. If…

  Well, I suppose that depends on how quickly my body digests the thin layer of material encasing the cocaine. An hour, Nicolai said.

  Twenty minutes have passed already.

  “You fucking idiot.” They’re the only three words Mischa has said to me since pulling off. “Do you have any idea what the hell you’ve done? I should kill you. I’ll fucking make you suffer—”

  “Like that girl would have suffered?” Oh, God. The vitriolic response spilled out of me before I could choke it down. Though I doubt there’s any room left in my stomach for more suppression. More lies. More fear. So, for once, I forget my mantra. I don’t breathe. I yell. “She’s a child!”

  “Is that so?” He laughs darkly while manipulating the steering wheel, cutting off an oncoming vehicle, the driver of which honks his displeasure. “You don’t know a fucking thing about that child. You think she hasn’t done it before?”

  Because she has. Scars haunted her eyes, deeper and more violent than anything found on my skin. Scars like the ones haunting the boy who intruded into Briar’s room all those years ago. Though their circumstances may be different, they both had no choice in the matter.

  “So that makes it right?” I question. “Even Robert wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t.” With one hand, he grips the back of my neck in warning. “You don’t know a fucking thing about what your Winthorp is capable of.”

  “He never cut my face,” I counter, glaring through blurred vision. I couldn’t hold my tears back if I tried. So I don’t. I let them fall. “He never put me in a cage, and he’s done…terrible, terrible things. But even he would never—”

  “You think you know me enough to compare me to him?”

  The vehicle slows to a stop. We’re on a narrow street where lights flicker nearby. Flashlights? At first, I think he’s stopped to threaten me, wasting precious time. But then a beam of light shines directly through the windshield.

  “Shit.”

  Mischa lets me go, and I hunch over, hiding my face. It’s the one little detail I didn’t consider before sacrificing myself. The girl was clean and whole enough to play a role in Nicolai’s charade without catching notice. Even Mischa excels at playing pretend. As an officer approaches his side of the car, he sits taller and lowers his window, resembling the guest of some important gala. Only I can see the gun tucked beneath his seat.

  “Good evening,” he greets while I observe his every move through the curtain of my hair.

  “Where are you headed?” The unfamiliar voice belongs to the officer.

  “We just came back from the opera,” Mischa says, nodding toward me. “She fell asleep halfway and demanded we return to the hotel.”

  He chuckles warmly while the officer peers in my direction. “Oh? Can I see your ID and registration please?”

  Mischa hands the documents over and precious seconds pass while the officer scrutinizes each one. Finally… He steps back and beckons us forward with a wave of his hand. “Move along.”

  As the officer passes by, Mischa
visibly deflates. He’s more cautious than nervous. Like he accused of the girl, he’s done this before. Just how many times? With how many women, their bellies stuffed with drugs? I’m almost tempted to ask him, but then I notice the time on the dashboard.

  There isn’t much left.

  To compound matters, Nicolai vastly understated the “exclusive company” his client must keep. Police cars are lurking near the front of the hotel when we draw closer, their lights turned off as officers scour those entering and leaving the elegant building.

  “Shit.” Rather than circle for the valet, Mischa takes a shortcut toward the employee entrance. He knows the way, parking in an empty, secluded space beside a dumpster.

  I exit the van after him and realize, even before I see his jaw clench in frustration, that there’s no way in hell we can go through the main security. Parking alone cost us three minutes.

  There’re barely twenty left.

  “This way. Keep your head down.” He takes my wrist and drags me across the parking lot and then through an emergency exit that opens into a laundry room of some kind. By some oversight, there’s no security here—yet, anyway—and Mischa moves swiftly, navigating a maze of rooms and industrial-sized machinery.

  Twenty minutes.

  Nineteen.

  I stop counting.

  Past the laundry room, we take a service elevator that brings us to the main lobby of the hotel, but rather than head out in the open, Mischa shoves me into a stairwell. We climb two flights in seconds. Then five more. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

  I’m panting, dripping sweat, by the time he finally stops at a floor. My stomach hurts. Don’t think about it, I try to tell myself. But running aids digestion, doesn’t it?

  How many minutes? I can’t remember…

  “In here.”

  We reach a hallway of closed doors, but he passes them all, heading right to one at the end. A potted plant rests beside the door. Crouching, Mischa rakes his fingers through the dirt and withdraws a keycard from the base of the plant before I can question. On the first swipe, the reader flashes red. No good. On the second attempt…

  Green!

  The door opens to a spacious suite. It’s impressive, decorated in black leather and white accents, but I only have eyes for the bathroom. I race to the sink. Bent over it, I open my mouth and try to gag. Nothing. I cram a finger down my throat, but it’s not enough.

  “Move!” He shoves my hands aside, and three thick fingers trigger my gag reflex, causing my stomach to erupt in protest.

  One bag comes up, still intact. Another. Another…

  “That’s ten,” Mischa grunts after what feels like an eternity. “Five more.”

  His fingers continue to assault my esophagus, but minutes tick by without another packet. Too long.

  “Shit.”

  He shoves me toward the tub. Before I can get my bearings, his hands form fists over my stomach, and with a grunt, he thrusts them both. Hard. One packet comes up. Another.

  “Keep going! One more.”

  “I can’t…” Horror steals the words from my throat. It’s too late. The last packet’s already dissolved. I know it has. Any second, I’ll go into shock. Die. Stupid, Ellen. Stupid—

  “Don’t think about anything else,” Mischa snarls, gripping me tight. “Just fucking breathe. Do it!”

  Harsh fingers ram into my stomach. Again. Again.

  “Ugh!” I double over and bring up the last packet, shaking with exertion.

  He drops me there, slumped over the tub. I’m only conscious enough to hear him run some water, cleaning the acid from the packets before tucking them away. I can’t move. I can’t think.

  I just breathe, fighting for air as the bathroom fades. I’m a child again, back in Winthorp Manor.

  Something was wrong.

  From the hallway, I heard footsteps. My mother’s? But no. These were too heavy, and the figure appearing in my doorway was far too large. His blond hair peeked from the edge of a black woolen cap. The color that made my heart stop. He was wearing it from head to toe: black slacks and a dark sweatshirt meant to disguise him in the shadows.

  The second he met my gaze, I knew. He was dangerous, just like the men my mother warned me to avoid. Something silver glinted in his hand. A blade.

  He pointed it at me, his jaw clenched. But his hand wavered. His eyes were too wide. Fearful?

  Suddenly, he pointed to the bed.

  “Get under it,” he warned. “Don’t think. Don’t move. You just fucking breathe.”

  Trembling and terrified, I had no choice but to obey, crawling on my stomach beneath Briar’s silk sheets. I’d only just tucked my legs beneath the frame when I heard the soft thud of another stranger’s approach—someone who sounded way too big to be a regular maid.

  “Is she in here?” another man demanded, his voice thick. Guttural. He talked as strangely as the boy did, betraying a heavy accent. “Well, is she?”

  “I don’t know,” the younger man replied as I inhaled raggedly, obeying his command. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe! “But we should leave. Now. Before they return.”

  They? Robert and his father. There was a gala that night. That’s why Robert was wearing a suit earlier that day. It was his first time attending the grown-up parties.

  “Leave?” the older man hissed. My stomach churned as thuds resonated through the floor: footsteps inching farther into the room. “You don’t make the shots, boy. Check. She has to be here.”

  “I’ve looked.” Lighter footfalls drift toward the opposite end of the room. “She’s not here. We should be looking for Anna—”

  “We are,” the older man insisted, his tone harsh. “But I will not let this insult stand. I don’t care if she’s just a child. The little whelp will pay for her father’s sins—”

  “Did you hear that?” the younger boy interjected. “Someone’s coming. We need to move!”

  Silently, they crept back into the hall, but I couldn’t move. Not even when my bladder protested and warm liquid dripped down my legs. Not even when a soft, small hand slipped beneath the mattress runner and brushed my wrist.

  “Ellen?” Briar’s face appeared through the darkness next, inches from mine. “Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  Only later would I learn that she heard the boy coming way before I had. Thinking quickly, she’d hidden in the closet.

  Leaving me behind…

  “Drink.” Something cool brushes my cheek. “Drink!”

  I blink as the rim of a water bottle presses against my mouth, but I shake my head. I doubt I’ll be able to swallow ever again.

  “No.” For whatever reason, Mischa won’t let me turn away. He grips my chin and grinds the rim of the bottle against my teeth. “Fucking drink.”

  I cringe with the first sip, surprised when it goes down with less pain than expected. Before I know it, I’ve drained the entire bottle.

  And all that’s left to do is face the wrath awaiting me.

  “It was you,” I croak, watching Mischa scowl at the confession from the corner of my eye. His gaze darts toward the sink as if counting the packets to ensure I really did expel them all.

  But I’m not delirious. For the first time in so long, I see everything clearly.

  “You were the boy,” I add. “In Winthorp Manor. I saw you. You thought I was Briar.”

  Yet he saved me.

  His eyes widen and narrow in quick succession. Remembering? Or suppressing. Gritting his teeth, he shakes his head, dismissing the accusation. “You dumb bitch,” he hisses, tightening his grip on my shoulder. “I should kill you—”

  “Better me than a child,” I whisper. Vanya was right. Mischa wasn’t always this way—but that knowledge only makes his fall all the more tragic. “I’d rather die than let you use her.”

  “Oh?” he laughs. “You stupid bitch. I wouldn’t have made her swallow it.”

  Too breathless to speak, I stiffen at the confession, my eyes wide. There’s a grim honesty to his words.
Even I can’t deny it.

  “I know this fucking hotel,” he adds. “All she had to do was hide them in the dress—”

  “You’d still…use…a child as a pawn.” It hurts to speak. My voice grates over the air, pathetic and broken.

  He hears me regardless. Radiating hatred, his body cages mine from behind, trapping me against the tub and tile flooring. There’s nowhere to run—not that I have the energy. I just press my bruised cheek against the rim and wait.

  If silence alone were as far as his cruelty went, I could survive it. But no. His touch creeps along my injured cheek, aggravating the sore flesh.

  I have no choice but to beg. “If you’re going to kill me, just kill me.”

  “Kill you?” He growls out a terrifying imitation of a laugh against my shoulder. “I should. It would be fucking easier than keeping you alive.”

  He’s still touching me. Rough fingers swipe at my cheek—to test the bandage, I realize. Next, he grabs my ankle to ensure the one on my foot is intact. There’s a rehearsed familiarity to the motions. Almost as if…

  “You cleaned me.” My voice echoes off the basin of the tub, hollow with shock. “You bandaged me—”

  “But maybe I should kill you,” he counters, ignoring my accusation. All at once, his hands fall away. “Is that what your fucking Winthorp would do? You compared me to the bastard, so tell me how this ends. With you dead?”

  I shake my head without bothering to reply out loud. Robert would never kill me. That would require that he give me something I actually want.

  An escape.

  “Then what?” Mischa wonders coldly. His fingers return to rake through my hair, softer than before. Alarm bells go off in my mind. Once again, he proves to be unpredictable. Wild. Dangerous. “You compared me to him,” he reminds me, hissing into my ear. “So fucking tell me what I’m supposed to do next.”

  I tremble at the implications of such a question. What would Robert do? He’d play a game, of course. One of his favorites.

  “He’d kiss me,” I hear myself croak, naming the first stage of any twisted session. “He’d touch me. Make me beg…”