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

by Lana Sky

  He wrenches himself out.

  Fiery spurts of liquid splash against the backs of my thighs, and then he’s gone. The mattress bounces as his weight withdraws. A metallic hiss betrays the sound of metal slicing through my binds, releasing me to lie here boneless and panting for breath.

  He leaves me like that, huddled and used.

  And, as the door slams, I begin to understand what other weapons he has in his arsenal besides physical violence.

  He brings pleasure.

  And, for the sake of my soul, I should fear every fucking drop.

  Robert never played with fire. At least not the brand Mischa likes to set.

  Sex with my husband was an ordeal I knew how to cope with. I’d studied how to bear it.

  I never dreaded it.

  Five hours after he left, I know that my new tormentor will return. Soon. He’ll do this to me again.

  Will I let him? A shudder ripples through me; I’ve never contemplated such a thing before. Choice. I’ve never had to weigh the consequences of one action against the pain of another. In twenty-three years, I’ve never feared reaching my breaking point—not like this. I’ve never had to look in the mirror and wonder, How much more can you take?

  The woman staring back at me doesn’t seem to know. Her blue eyes sport visible cracks, splintering her stoic façade. Something terrifying lurks underneath those delicate features. I feel it running through my skin, causing my fingers to tremble against the countertop. In a desperate bid to suppress whatever it is, I draw another bath and scrub myself clean of every ounce of Mischa. When I return to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, I find another tray waiting for me on the bed.

  I dress first, raiding the mysterious wardrobe for a modest black frock. Then I sip from a bowl of soup and obediently empty the accompanying water bottle.

  After leaving the tray outside my door, I retreat within the room and wait. It should be a familiar game—the preferable option to any other. I used to wait for Robert without fail, anticipating his various moods to better withstand them.

  I try to predict Mischa. I let the darkest depths of my imagination play with inventing the multiple scenarios he could have lying in wait, ready to spring. He could sell me to Sergei or return me to Robert alive. Any one of those outcomes would be better than the horrors my brain starts to conjure.

  Him, returning to this room late at night with more rope.

  Me, unable to stop him.

  Not wanting to…

  Suddenly restless, I rise from the bed and stagger to the doorway. My heart flutters at the thought of leaving my refuge. Regardless, I twist the knob and step out into the hall.

  This part of the floor seems empty, but muted noise betrays a commotion lurking farther within the house. On bare feet, I find myself tiptoeing toward it. Why? I know what happens to those caught underfoot in the world of men. I also know just who most likely awaits at the heart of the tension resonating through the walls.

  Like a moth to a flame, I can’t escape the invisible shackle drawing me forward, anyway. Curiosity.

  It feeds on the pathetic part of my soul that flares to life the moment I reach the stairs and spot the monster lurking at the base of them. His gaze finds me instantly, narrowing over my hiding spot in the shadows. God, his face looks even worse from this angle. The triplet slashes gleam in the glow of the overhanging chandelier, conjuring another memory from the depths of my psyche. Hellcat. That’s what Robert’s men called a “feisty” woman. The bitch was a hellcat, fucking scratched me all up.

  They usually punished those women for their resistance. In my experience, hellcats wound up in the place of their namesake: hell.

  Perhaps this is my tailored version of it? Trapped in his house, at his mercy, with no escape in sight. The flames are invisible, but the real burn comes from the deep-seated knowledge that I haven’t tried to escape.

  Not yet.

  “Let’s go.” Turning from me, Mischa inclines his head, and only now do I notice the other men gathered around him. They crowd before the door and they leave in single file, their jaws clenched in stern determination, weapons in hand.

  Something is wrong, and I recall a snippet of the conversation I overheard with Sergei. Robert? Could he be here? Now? My heart races at the thought. From relief. That’s what I tell myself as I pick my way back to the red room and close the door.

  I want my husband to find me. To save me? Something in my soul takes issue with that phrasing. I have to sink down, with my back pressed against the door, and find a new term to use. Find? Reclaim? Purify? Yes, I want my husband to purify me before Mischa’s taint can take over.

  As the daylight wanes, I let myself imagine how a reunion with Robert might unfold. He’d never storm into Mischa’s compound on his own. No, a group of his men would do that. They’d be the ones to find me and drag me to the safety of Winthorp manor. He’d never consent to see me like this, so I’d have to be bathed first, have my wounds cleansed and all traces of another man erased. Only after Mischa’s bruises have healed would he touch me again.

  He would never knock.

  But neither would Mischa.

  The sound intrudes on the heavy silence, startling me to my feet. “Come in,” I call out, expecting Vanya.

  Hunched over and cautious, the older man enters my room—but a second is all it takes for me to register the features that don’t belong to my kind benefactor. This man is taller. Older, even, with gray speckling more of his longer, darker hair.

  And his eyes…

  Unnervingly sharp, they hone in on me and narrow. “Don’t scream.”

  I don’t realize I’ve been on the verge of doing so until he advances, his hand outstretched, and the air dissipates from my lungs.

  “Please,” Sergei murmurs just loud enough to prevent being overheard by anyone in the hall. “I won’t hurt you—”

  “W-what do you want?” Instinct drives me back against the wall. My heart pounds as I struggle to take in as much of the intruder as I can. He’s dressed in a dark suit, conveying a polished aura so different from the harsh one Mischa projects.

  He sighs when I stiffen, shaking his head. “I want to talk,” he says. “Alone.”

  “About what?”

  You know what. I can’t escape the suspicion that that’s what he wants to say. His gaze is more piercing than Mischa or even Robert’s. It penetrates my soul, slicing through my pathetic attempts to protect myself—but there’s a softness to him my other tormentors lack. Even now, I can’t deny that.

  “Your mother was Marnie Winthorp,” he says softly. “Wasn’t she?”

  My chest burns, and I can’t stop myself from scanning the corners, hunting for Mischa. Is this another one of his games? He may be forbidden from using my mother against me, so perhaps he enlisted someone to do it for him?

  But no. Only now do my ears register how he said that name. Reverently.

  It’s too terrifying a thought to consider. So I don’t. “You should leave—”

  “I won’t upset you,” Sergei says. “And I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending that you don’t know who I am. All I wanted was to give you this…”

  He reaches into his pocket and a silver glint catches the light. Whatever he’s holding is small, slender. A necklace?

  “Here.” He offers the object to me, clasped between his fingers. “Take this. And I don’t know what Mischa’s done to you or said—” He pauses as if waiting for me to explain, but when I say nothing, he sighs. “But know this: Whenever you need an ally, you come to me. No questions asked. No price to pay. You say my name and invoke my protection and no one will harm you. Then we will talk.”

  “W-why?”

  A noise sounds from the hallway and Sergei cocks his head, frowning. “Remember that. Always. You have an ally in me.”

  He grabs my hand, shoving the hidden item against my palm. Then he turns to the door and is gone before I can choke a question out.

  “Wait!”

 
; Only silence greets me, and for whatever reason, I can’t make myself move to follow him. The item was a necklace, I realize. It sparkles against my fingers, a delicate silver chain.

  Dangling from the center is a small charm that somehow feels familiar, though I’m sure I’ve never seen it before: a small metal rose.

  Sergei carried a woman’s necklace in his pocket.

  A rose.

  My husband never plied me with jewelry. He dressed me in pretty silks and housed me in luxury—but, as Mischa pointed out, he never gave me a ring, or a broach, or a necklace. Is that a good thing? I have nothing here to remind me of him. Nothing but memories and this instinctive need to compare him to the man holding my figurative chains now.

  Robert would never leave me unguarded like this.

  He would never scar me publicly so that the world knew his claim.

  But for what reason?

  Paranoia keeps me awake. I twist Sergei’s necklace around my fingers until something makes me creep toward the vanity and place the chain against my throat. It settles there uncomfortably, like a missing piece I’d never realized was gone. My hands shake as I fasten the clasp and let the rose charm hang against my collar.

  It’s as if the charm is magic. My resemblance to Briar is all but gone. I look more like another person now than ever. Minus my scars, we could be the same haunted woman.

  Marnie.

  Trapped in Sergei’s grasp, did she huddle in her prison and wait for the end of her nightmare? Of course she did.

  But I can’t. I won’t.

  For once, my mantra feels meaningless. Breathe, Ellen. But for what? To stay alive at Mischa’s demand? To follow even further in Marnie’s footsteps?

  To die alone.

  To live in a cage.

  To remain a selfish, captive bird.

  I can’t.

  So I stop breathing and hold my breath as I creep to the door and press my ear to the wood. It’s silent, but something won’t let me grasp the handle. Mischa isn’t foolish. I’m sure he has his men watching the doors, just in case.

  So I turn to the windows and shrug aside the heavy drapes shrouding them. I didn’t notice before exactly where this room is positioned. Below stretches a wide field, and ivy creeps up a stone façade. The rusted latch squeals as I test one of the panes, but they open smoothly only to present a stark reality. Over a full story off the ground, I either have to jump or climb.

  Shadows shroud the type of surface waiting down below. Stone? Earth? The more I contemplate my options, the more escape feels like a cruel whim than an attainable reality. Tears prickle behind my eyes. It’s no use.

  Or is it?

  I find myself observing the ivy again and brush the tip of a plant with my fingers. It’s rooted firmly to something I didn’t notice before: an iron lattice strong enough to support my weight. Or at least I hope as much as I climb onto the sill and brace one of my feet in the gaps. Tentatively, I sink down and nearly sigh in relief as the support holds.

  Without stopping to acknowledge the consequences, I guide myself lower, clinging to whatever part of the lattice I can reach. I’m slow. Too slow. Noises of the night echo, but it’s impossible to decipher if they belong to woodland creatures or Mischa’s men.

  But there’s no turning back now.

  I keep going, forcing myself to climb until my bare foot brushes what feels like packed earth. Up above my window glows, a beacon in the darkness. How long until Mischa comes for me? Minutes? Seconds?

  There isn’t time to plan. I set my sights on a copse of trees in the distance and run. An icy wind nips at my skin and tears at my hair. It’s like the earth itself is cackling at my futile attempts. He’ll find you, Ellen. He’ll find you.

  Deep down, I think a part of me knows that. I keep running anyway, letting my surging pulse spur me on. Branches and dried leaves crunch underfoot. It’s bitterly cold, and my breaths paint the air in tufts of white.

  But I keep running.

  Defying.

  Breaking…

  Sergei’s necklace hammers my chest with every sprint, and I can’t get his face out of my head. Hers. Did she resist him? Fight him? Hate him?

  Was he the reason she was burdened with me?

  Suddenly, the ground changes beneath my feet. My heel slips over a slick patch of mud and I trip, landing on my knees, tasting dirt. It’s so silent here. Too silent. All I hear are my own frantic breaths and… Noise?

  Faint. Rapid. Footsteps, heading right for me.

  Gasping, I scramble to my feet, knowing in my soul that it’s no use. He’s too fast, crashing through the trees near my right. I can’t get my bearings. The air changes. Shadows shift underfoot.

  Wham!

  I’m struck so hard that I go sprawling and there’s nothing I can do but brace. Groaning, I rise to my knees, making a note of my surroundings. Faint moonlight illuminates a stark landscape of winding hills and looming trees.

  Then nothing. Whether by the grace of God or accident, I tripped mere paces from a sharp drop. The earth gives way to a cliff that overlooks looming darkness.

  And makes for the perfect trap.

  Leaves rustle nearby, and I lurch to my feet, squaring my stance. To fight? God, I don’t know. Maybe I will. At least this time I won’t let him corner me like an animal. When footsteps near my position, I turn to face him, hunting his form in the darkness. Sure enough, I spot a breathless figure crouched nearby.

  But their shape is wrong. Too small. Too slender. And their face…

  Graced by a beam of moonlight, pale skin glows, delicate and pure. Wide, blue eyes gleam in a face so familiar that it’s like looking into a mirror—an enchanted one that shows my reflection as it once was, free of scars and bruises. The shocked expression even matches mine, I’m sure.

  But then my doppelganger’s eyes narrow in recognition, and pink lips form a voice much more charming than mine. “Ellen?”

  Numb with shock, all I can croak is, “Briar?”

  She’s still so beautiful. Is that what shocks me the most? Huddling under the threat of Mischa, it was easier to ignore the damage done to me then. Not now, with a perfect version of my features forming a stark contrast.

  She’s still wearing silk, her hair slicked back into a neat bun. So polished, in fact, that she could have come from a ball or gala.

  Not a madman’s backyard.

  I’ve gone insane. That explains it. Still, I find myself talking to what must be a figment of my imagination. “What are you doing here?”

  The mirage of Briar blinks, startled. Then…she throws her head back to display her pale throat and laughs. She’s loud, no doubt catching notice for miles—but that’s not what makes my stomach sink. It’s the coldness reflected in her gaze as she meets mine directly.

  “I fucking knew it,” she hisses, her hands clenching into fists. “That bastard. I fucking knew it!”

  “Knew what? How did you get here?” A sudden thought takes my breath away. “Did Mischa—”

  “I should have known he’d do anything to have you back.” She takes a step back, still laughing. Lost in amusement, she doesn’t seem to realize just how close she is to the ledge. Her heeled feet kick up loose rocks that clatter into the abyss. “I was hoping you would just stay gone. Why couldn’t you?”

  Once again, I’m not sure if she’s really here or a hallucination. A nightmare. In twenty-three years, I’ve never heard her sound so lost. Or so damn cold.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Seriously?” She cocks her head. “You’re still so fucking stupid.” One of her hands drifts to her cheek, brushing the unblemished skin. “They really thought you were me…”

  I copy her, flinching as my palm grazes my injured cheek.

  “Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut?” Briar wonders so softly that I barely hear her. “Did you really think he’d save you? No!” Her voice rises in pitch, alarmingly loud. “I won’t let him use me as his fucking pawn—”

&nb
sp; Above her shouting, I almost miss it: the earth crunching—warning of the approach of a larger creature. I smell him before I even see him, so potent that it chokes me. Raw strength. Unbridled rage.

  Mischa.

  Briar doesn’t notice him until he’s already stepped from the cover of a nearby tree. Her skin goes even paler, her legs trembling.

  But she isn’t the figure caught by the full force of his gaze. He doesn’t say a word, but his posture reminds me every bit of a hunter’s. Waiting for me to move. To run.

  “Stay away from me!” Briar staggers wildly, her arms outstretched. Her foot catches a stray branch, sending her stumbling.

  I race for her without realizing, grabbing her arm. “Stop—”

  “Let go!” She flails and her hand connects with my chest, knocking me back.

  I careen against a firm surface. Mischa. He grabs my waist to steady me but shoves me aside. I can only stare as he moves with predatory grace, lunging for Briar.

  “No!” I strain for them, but the terrain is too uneven. I can’t regain my balance and my fingers grasp at muddied earth. Then air.

  What must take seconds feels like an eternity of falling… Eyes shut, I brace for the end that I’m sure is coming. Wham! I feel it: sharp, unrelenting pain searing through my shoulder. From above?

  “Fuck! Give me your other hand.”

  Dazed, I look up. Thick fingers encircle my wrist, belonging to a figure hunched over the cliff, his eyes like fire.

  Mischa.

  “Give me your other fucking hand!”

  I try, straining my fingers through the air. But his are too far away. My legs kick at nothing. His grip is slipping…

  “Don’t let me go.” I don’t even know why I beg. Because he will go after Briar. I can sense the hesitation in how his eyes cut to his right. He shifts his posture, adjusting his grip and my heart sinks. “Don’t!”

  Agony rips through my shoulder as I’m suddenly yanked higher. Wet earth scrapes along my flesh. Solid ground. Looking up, I see Mischa hunched over and panting. I barely register the look in his eyes. Relief?

  It’s only there for a second before his hand curls into a fist. I hear the sickening blow as white dots explode across my vision.