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

by Lana Sky

  He never left me guessing.

  “Has Ivan asked you about your mother?” Mischa asks.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Lie to him if he does.”

  I can’t stop myself from questioning, “Why?”

  “Should I tell you?” He cocks his head, glancing at me over his shoulder. “No, I don’t think I should,” he decides. “But I suggest you trust me on this, Little Rose. Vanya is a good man”—he frowns as if annoyed by that fact—“but good men can have their own secrets.”

  With that, he heads for the door and shoulders it open, leaving my head spinning and more questions on my tongue. This time, I don’t have the energy to voice them.

  “I’ll say this again: Have your run of the property,” Mischa calls from the doorway. “Explore to your heart’s content and remember how many monsters are hungry for you beyond these walls.”

  The door slams behind him, rattling the ornate frame surrounding it.

  And I just sit here on my captor’s bed, drowning in his scent.

  Explore. The guttural taunt echoes in my thoughts as I take the hottest shower I can stand. Still wet, I creep into the bedroom and venture toward the dresser for a second time.

  His clothing is exquisitely tailored, meaning only his shirts have any hope of fitting me. I settle on a white one and roll the sleeves up. The high collar disguises the worst of my neck, at least. My hair, however, is a hopeless cause that I tuck behind my ears, and my face can only be salvaged by wiping away the fresh blood and ignoring the bruising around my right eye.

  It’s only as I smooth the hem around my knees that I recognize the routine I’ve fallen into. Pretending. Perfecting.

  Robert liked me properly dressed at all times outside of his room. He liked me to smile, and preen, and primp like the prettiest bird, happy in her cage. He’d hiss in disgust at the sight of me now: a bruised and broken plaything, bitten by another beast.

  Here, there is no use pretending, and I let my hands fall with a sigh as I heed my captor’s words.

  I explore.

  A part of me half expects to find the door to the room locked as I palm the handle. But, when I twist it slowly, it turns in my grip and I swallow hard. Beyond the door, I don’t spy Mischa lurking in the hall.

  In fact, it’s empty, devoid of even his men. I don’t cross a single soul as I creep toward the central corridor. Rather than savor my rare moment of freedom, I remember Mischa’s command. Have your run of the property.

  It’s large, for one—overwhelmingly so. High, vaulted ceilings capture every sound made beneath them and throw them back ten times louder. I swear I can even hear my heartbeat mocking me in an unsteady echo. The air feels stale, untouched. As if no one has been here in ages, yet at the same time, everything has been meticulously maintained.

  Does Mischa really live here?

  I don’t find any portraits on the walls to give me a clue. No photographs like the ones covering nearly every inch of the grand halls in Winthorp Manor, either. Robert Sr. took pains to ensure that anyone who entered his home knew just who had built it. Prestige and acknowledgment were everything. In the eyes of a Winthorp, being ignored was a fate worse than death, one saved for only the most worthless among them…

  The feel of polished wood beneath my fingers draws my attention back to the present. Instinct must have guided me here without any input from my brain: I’m before a door. The one to Mischa’s study.

  Stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.

  With his taunt in my head, I hesitate for only a second before palming the handle and crossing the threshold. Everything looks untouched. Still, I circle the desk and wrench a drawer open for the hell of it. Do I expect to find anything of value? No.

  But I can’t ignore the thrill building in my stomach as I run my fingers through loose pens and scattered bits of blank paper. He’s messy, forsaking the strict organization Robert prided himself on. My husband arranged his pens by nib color and size, preferring to have them lined up on the right-hand side of his desk, at the ready. He kept photos on the opposite end. Of me, of his father. He would look at either one depending on which mood he felt like embodying at that given moment: ruthless or vengeful? He could switch them out like hats.

  Mischa keeps no such reminders, at least none I can discern. There are no trinkets, no keepsakes, no women—family or otherwise. Oh, but there have been. I picture the red room with renewed interest. Where would a heartless shell of a man keep reminders of his woman?

  The answer is as intangible as it is obvious: everywhere. My perfume permeated Robert’s suite. I may have been rarely seen and barely heard, but he was aware of my presence. Always. He relished in it: the captive bird whose chirping he could sense, no matter the room she was in.

  Maybe the identity of Mischa’s bird lurks in plain sight as well?

  When I leave the study in search of another room, I find nothing in it. It’s empty, decorated in muted grays, with no sign of life in sight. The room beside it reveals nothing, either. Neither do the rest in the entire wing. Retracing my steps back to Mischa’s room feels like a halfhearted retreat to familiar ground—at least until I enter the room beside his.

  My fingers tremble as I switch the light on and scan the interior for the second time. In the end, the perfume and the old clothes are my only finds. Mischa guards his secrets too well. He upholds his end of the bargain by letting me explore in peace, but I can sense him waiting deeper in the house for me to find.

  I chase his essence down the grand staircase and then through an array of cavernous rooms. I suppose it’s only fitting that I eventually spot his shadow in one of them, seated opposite an imposing man with dark hair. He’s familiar, in fact, conjuring uneasy tension in my belly. Sergei.

  “I came here alone, Pakhan,” he says, conveying his chilling sense of calm. “I have no motive.”

  “With all due respect, I have to wonder why a man like you would want to waste good money on a Winthorp whore,” Mischa replies.

  Heart in my throat, I freeze, watching the exchange from the mouth of the hall.

  “Waste? No.” Sergei inclines his head dismissively. “Perhaps I want to spare the girl from whatever fate you have in store. After all, your hatred is toward the Winthorps themselves, is it not? I know the boy has contacted you about her—”

  “Do you now?” Mischa counters, sounding unnerved in stark contrast to how I feel.

  My blood runs cold. My heart stops. It takes me seconds to pick apart the cryptic riddle: the boy. Robert?

  “I also know that you’ve refused him, despite what he offered. Why? Does revenge really mean so much to you? Or maybe there’s some other reason you want to torment this woman—”

  “Perhaps,” Mischa admits. “Maybe I’m simply not finished with her yet.”

  “And when will you be? Finished?” Sergei counters. “Or have you lost yourself that much you can’t even foresee an end to your brutality?”

  “Careful, Sergei,” Mischa says softly. “One might think you’ve forgotten the mission you yourself started. Have you forgotten Anna-Natalia already?”

  “Never,” the other man counters. “But I’ve lived long enough to learn that violence solves very little.”

  “And yet, you gave up your title as leader. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

  “No.” Sergei leans forward, bracing his hands against the armrests of his chair. “Don’t challenge me, Mischa. I meant no offense. But if you wish to keep the girl, it’s your decision.” He inclines his head respectfully before rising from the table. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”

  He turns for the door, spotting me there. His eyes scan my body slowly, honing in on my face with uncomfortable scrutiny.

  “I can show myself out,” he says to Mischa before advancing over the threshold.

  I scurry back, pressing myself against the wall to clear enough space for him to pass. But he doesn’t. He inclines his head instead, observing me m
ore closely.

  “What is your name?” He speaks softly enough that only I can hear.

  I say nothing.

  “Can you speak?” He frowns, gingerly swiping his thumb along my wounded cheek. “Your face… You look so much like—”

  “Pardon me, Sergei,” Mischa says, appearing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “I should keep better track of my toys.”

  “It is no trouble,” Sergei replies, stepping back. “I was just curious if she had a name.”

  Mischa shrugs. “Not that I remember and not that it matters.” He sounds casual enough, but his tone is harder than it should be. Why?

  Perhaps for the same reason Sergei’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, even as he maintains that calm smile. “Of course.” He shifts his weight, appearing to turn. Wham! Something nudges my foot, throwing me off-balance, right into a wall of rigid muscle. Before I can attempt to regain my bearings, hot breath nudges my ear, carrying two grated syllables. “Elena?”

  There’s pain in that hollow tone.

  And even more alarming…

  There’s recognition.

  “Something wrong?” Mischa calls.

  “My apologies,” Sergei mutters as his hand settles over my shoulder.

  “No. The apologies are mine.” Another grip seizes my opposite forearm, decidedly harsher. “It appears she requires more training,” Mischa says coldly, yanking me back before positioning himself in front of me. “I’ll be sure to see to that.”

  Sergei says nothing. From my position, I can only hear his retreating footsteps, slow and hesitant. “Wait—” He speaks rapidly in a language I can’t understand.

  Whatever he says makes Mischa stiffen, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side. He’s thinking, mulling something over. Then he shakes his head. “Nyet. She is not for sale.”

  Sergei laughs. “As you wish. My offer still stands if you change your mind.”

  He continues down the entire length of the hall. Before I can be sure that he’s gone, I’m yanked off-balance and into a vacated room.

  “What did he tell you?” Mischa demands.

  My heart pounds out a frantic rhythm. Since my capture, I’ve never heard him sound like this. Guttural. Raw. On edge.

  His eyes flash menacingly when I remain silent. “I won’t ask you twice—”

  “N-nothing,” I insist.

  “Oh?” His nostrils flare as if catching the stench of the lie in the air. “Then what did you say to him, Little Rose?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “Then why did he just double his price for you?”

  His price? Only now do I remember his earlier threat. Someone offered to buy you…

  “Can you tell me why a man like Sergei Vasilev would offer two million for a Winthorp whore?”

  My mind reels. Two million? Shocked, I have to force myself to reply, “I-I don’t know—”

  “If you fear me, then you should be terrified of Sergei. I’ve kept your soul intact.” He tilts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze, and nods. “It’s still there. I’ve shown you far more mercy than you realize. But Sergei…”

  There’s a rare note of respect in his voice that triggers unease in my body. I picture the man from the night before, with his unrelenting calm and quiet power. Mischa not only respects him, he’s afraid of him.

  “Do you believe that men can change?” he wonders, pressing his thumb against my lower lip to demand an answer. “Do you?”

  “N-no.” If life with Robert taught me one thing, it was that men, of all creatures in this world, are the most set in their ways. The most stubborn. The most fearful of change. Poor Vanya seemed to be learning that the hard way, though I’m not stupid enough to mention that now. I simply nod against his palm. “They can’t.”

  “Then you, my Little Rose, have a new monster to hide from. Sergei offered money for you, but that was just a formality. He can’t demand you directly…” He stares beyond me, and I suspect he’s speaking more to himself than anyone else. “But when he wants something, he gets it eventually—”

  “Why would he want me?” An answer comes from the back of my mind before Misha can give me one. It’s something Sergei himself said. You look like her…

  “To fuck,” Mischa suggests crudely. “To kill. Take your pick—”

  “M-my mother.” Pain constricts my chest. I can barely get my next words out. “Did…did he—”

  “Rape her?” Mischa wonders. “Probably.”

  He makes the violent act sound so casual. And I look like her. Marnie. Sergei could have some sick fetish for reliving his abuse of her. Or…

  “You’re wondering if he could be your father?” Mischa asks, intruding upon my deepest thoughts without care or permission. “The timeline works, but from the rumors I’ve heard, your father could be any one of the men in the Vasilev employ.”

  Hot tears escape down my cheeks too quickly to attempt to hold back. Memories of my mother are like delicate shards of broken glass I’ve carefully preserved all these years. Beautiful to look at, painful to touch. I look like her, now more than ever, in a way Briar could only dream. Our scars are the same. Haunted, hollow, empty eyes.

  “This hurts you,” Mischa says.

  I expect him to laugh, savoring my pain. Instead…his thumb catches a tear and smears it against the flesh of my cheek as if to ensure it was real.

  “Knowing that your father could be one of them—”

  “Stop.”

  “Didn’t you ever question why she never told you?”

  I did, only to conjure more pain whenever I felt heartless enough to mention it. “Stop—”

  “If you had a child with me, and I let you run back to your precious husband. Would you ever tell her who I was?”

  The question is as cruel as it is unbearable to contemplate. “No.”

  “Is that the same courtesy you extend to your child with Winthorp?”

  Enough. I squeeze my eyes shut, slapping my hands over my ears. No. He can’t pull this answer out of me. I won’t let him—

  “Look at me.” His voice echoes inside my head, impossible to escape. “I won’t tell you twice—”

  “Just kill me.” I utter the words while peeling my eyes open to gauge his expression. I find nothing. Not even hate. Just emptiness.

  “This is killing you,” he says. “Knowing that I can get inside your head. That I can take whatever the fuck I want—”

  “Then take it!” I’m screaming though I don’t know why. Or why more tears fall, coating my chin in wetness.

  Robert is a parasite, feeding on whatever I have to give—but Mischa is a virus, invading every inch of me and turning my own body into a stranger’s. Someone I hate.

  “Or is torturing me how you ignore your own pain?” I wonder, knowing full well that it’s already too late to turn back. “Number seven?”

  I see black. Feel fire. Taste blood.

  As I blink frantically, I realize I’m on the floor, staring up at the face of a monster. His fist is clenched, the knuckles dripping blood as my left cheek throbs in agony. His eyes are downcast, his mouth tight. In shock? Horror? His fingers flex, and for the first time, I see something I could describe as human in him.

  Regret?

  Regardless, I wait for my stomach to clench in fear and the cowering instincts I’ve lived by for so long to rear their head. Instead, my skin burns, set alight by shame and hate. Hate. I’ve never hated Robert. I loathe Mischa. The foreign emotion festers inside me, controlling my muscles and blotting out every intelligible thought.

  With my head throbbing, I somehow make it onto my feet. Onto him, nails drawn, legs kicking, hands slapping, biting. Anything I can reach. I’ve played one game for so damn long that I have no patience for another.

  If he wants to kill me, then he can kill me.

  Now.

  Another blow knocks me to the ground—his entire body. He pins me with his weight, using his hands to trap me beneath him. He’s impervious to every b
low I land. Kick after kick after kick. But he never retaliates.

  He just shouts. Something my brain refuses to decipher. I don’t want to hear him.

  So I scream, aggravating my own eardrums. Like this, he can’t reach me, not even when he wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. Robbed of air, I choke. I wheeze.

  And when he finally lets me go, I sob, shutting my eyes against his presence. He’s still speaking. Still threatening. Still growling.

  But I hear nothing. Just my own racing heartbeat and a jagged fragment of memory, repeating on a loop: Elena. Elena. Happy birthday, Elena…

  Footsteps rattle the floor. Advancing? No, retreating.

  He’s gone—from the room at least. But, like any devastating illness, he lingers inside my head, and I’ll go insane trying to keep him out.

  CHAPTER 21

  T he memory is a cruel one, beginning the way the worst ones always do. With her.

  Soft fingertips parted my hair in a gentle caress, coaxing me awake. “Happy birthday.” The sweet voice sounded warmer than the purest ray of sunshine. So very beautiful. God, I’d give anything to hear it again… “My sweet girl,” she murmured. “Already so big.”

  I peeled my eyes open, always in awe of her quiet beauty. Scars haunted her blue eyes, but I was young enough then to mistake them as a natural part of what made my mother so delicate. Her pain was a beacon, broadcasting to anyone and everyone the purity of her soul. It was the only thing of value she had left.

  And for that reason, everyone wanted it.

  “I can’t stay long,” she warned before pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I just wanted to wish you a wonderful day. Seven, already.”

  It sounded like such a prestigious age when she uttered it. Seven years. Seven long, painful years that had taken their toll on her youthful features. Only through memory can I track how she’d withered away right before my eyes. Her smile was fainter that day than any before it, shielding a million secrets I’d never learn.

  “I have to go now.” Noise in the hallway drew her attention and she hurried to her feet, smoothing the skirt of her dress.