by Lana Sky
“The old man says you can start walking around tomorrow,” he continues, presumably referring to Vanya. “But I don’t know… All this sugary shit and you might be able to fly.”
He relinquishes the slice of bread, which the girl promptly shoves into her mouth.
Looking at him, she cuts her eyes in my direction and Mischa copies her. Then he laughs.
“You watch your mouth,” he scolds, running his palm over her scalp. “It’s rude to call people names.”
“And what is that?” I ask, stepping over the threshold.
Both figures turn to me and share another mischievous look.
“That’s it,” Mischa declares. My cheeks prickle with heat as he throws his head back and laughs more genuinely than I think I’ve ever heard. “Bedtime.” He snatches the tray of bread and jam and places it on a table beyond her reach. “No more sweet stuff for you. You get too mouthy.” He looks at me, still smirking, and my heart lurches.
Strip him of anger and he can appear human.
But like this?
He’s a different man, glimpsed through the window of a rare second when he has no guard to maintain or façade to uphold.
But just as quickly, the hardened criminal returns and his smile transforms into a seething glare.
“I’ll be back,” he barks to Mouse before advancing on my position. “But first, Little Rose and I need to have a chat—”
I turn before he can finish and lead the way back to the room I came from while he follows. Rage lashes from him like a weapon. It slices at my skin, fighting to leave a mark—but my new armor is impenetrable, it seems: I’ve just stopped caring.
“What did he say to you?” Mischa demands as he barrels into the room, slamming the door. The violent thud echoes like a gunshot—and all I can do is laugh in its terrifying wake. “Something funny, I’m guessing?” He grabs my arm, wrenching me around to face him. “Did you two come up with some hilarious little scheme to—”
“Kiss me.”
“What?” He blinks, his words ending in a shocked grunt.
I’ve startled him so greatly that he loosened his grip, but I don’t capitalize on my new freedom. I endure him. Desperate, my nostrils flare for his scent and I choke it down with every breath—it’s the only way to keep the dark memories Sergei unearthed at bay.
By dancing with another devil.
“Kiss me.” I tilt my head back to meet his gaze fully, watching rage go to war with confusion. “Do it,” I add. “Or was all that talk about wanting me just that? Talk—”
“Fine.” He reclaims my shoulders, yanking me forward.
Our lips meet fiercely—teeth on flesh. Nipping. Tearing. Bruising.
But I’m the one doing the most damage. Like this, I can’t think. He demands my sole attention, grinding his presence into my skin, forcing me to react. Breathe. Feel. There is no room for doubt, or pain, or anything else.
Just Mischa.
Luckily, consuming me is one task he doesn’t hesitate to fulfill. His hands rake through my hair, teasing out any thoughts that don’t contain him as he backs me toward the bed. Shoves me onto it. While I fight to catch my breath, he grabs my thighs, spreading them apart as his fingers come to tease me open.
“Look at me.”
He’s still fuming. Our conversation isn’t finished yet—but he draws it out nonverbally instead. A searching thumb shoved inside me contains a futile plea he won’t ever voice out loud: How can I trust you? Brutally, he repeats that refrain, thrusting inside me over and over as my toes curl. How? How? How?
All I can do is relax into the violence and compile my own primal answer. How can he trust me?
By letting me in. My tongue at first, sliding along his lower lip. Then my hands, sinking through his hair. Gradually, he removes his thumb from inside me and replaces it with something larger—and presents a more pressing question.
Can you ever trust me?
My body isn’t sure at first. Tension seizes my muscles, paralyzing me. He’s too fucking big—and though I’ve already taken him multiple times, this moment feels different.
The thin mattress is unforgiving. There’s no resistance to each shallow thrust of his hips as tender flesh molds to his shape like clay. When he finally moves inside me, he goes too deep. So deep that it hurts, and the only way to soothe the ache is to close my eyes and surrender.
My traitorous body was made for him. The way he feels is almost too much for my brain to process all at once. Massive. Unending. Gentle.
I marvel at that fact more than any other. He braces his hand beneath me to keep my back from contacting the rough wood of the headboard, even though the act forces him into an awkward crouch. It’s almost like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—shouldering the discomfort entirely on his own.
He’s too busy tasting any part of me his tongue can reach. My shoulder. My throat. Soon, meaningless words meld with every wet flick of heat. “So beautiful…beautiful. So fucking good.”
Sergei is a distant memory as long as I stay here in Mischa’s arms, treasured and hated at the same damn time. My heart hammers into a frantic melody, matching the pace of his as our breathing slows and our sweat dries.
Eventually, he tries to pull back, but my limbs stiffen, keeping him captive for once. My prisoner. Unlike his increasing demands, I only want one thing from him.
Oblivion.
And for whatever reason…
He stays here, giving me a taste.
Chapter 3
“Did you really think you could fool me?”
I startle awake and find a shadow looming over me. With rough hands, it rips the blankets from my body, leaving me naked in the frigid air.
“So, this is your game,” the specter growls, brandishing something in his fist.
A photograph? Whoever took it must have been only able to capture their subject from afar. In the dark, I can barely make out anything of substance.
Anything other than a small figure sporting a mop of brilliant blond hair.
My brain shuts down, refusing to connect the dots. It’s like I’m sleepwalking, processing everything two seconds too slow. Mischa’s anger. The unfamiliar boy in the photo. The torn remnants of an envelope sprinkled over the floor…
“No!” Reality slams into me all at once, and I lunge from the bed, snatching at the picture. “No!”
“Oh, yes.” Laughing, Mischa steps back, dangling the photo beyond my reach. “Are you really that fucking stupid? What did Sergei promise you? A happily fucking ever after with your precious Robert and his goddamn spawn—”
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” I lash out with my nails drawn, striking any part of him I can reach. His skin is iron, reinforced by steel muscles, and each blow hurts me more than him. Regardless, I slap and punch and bite.
It’s all I can do.
“Stop it!” Abruptly, he retaliates, grabbing my wrists. “Enough!” I can barely hear him above the rush of blood surging through my ears. “I said enough!”
“Why would you do this?” I’ve been shouting at him all this time. The same broken words, over and over. “Why? Why?”
My knees buckle, and he lunges, looping his arm around my waist. Even as I struggle, he remains the only force keeping me upright.
“Stop,” he growls.
“Why?” His chest is the only refuge. My tears sink into the cotton of his shirt as I wrestle one of my hands from his grip and slam it harmlessly against him. “Why? I let it go… I didn’t listen. I can’t listen. Why? Why?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? Why? Why—”
“I’m sorry! Do you fucking hear me?” He shakes me so violently that my head rears back and forth against my shoulders. When I go limp, he grits his teeth and something in his expression gives way. Guilt? “I’m sorry, all right?”
“Rip it up,” I demand, squeezing my eyes shut. “Do it now. Rip it up!”
“Fuck… Okay!” He sighs.
But I can’t breathe until
I hear the telltale hiss of paper tearing. Suddenly, all the tension leaves my body, which sends me crashing to my knees.
“Hey!”
Fire engulfs me from above. I’m in his arms again, held stiffly as if he half expects me to continue attacking him. But all I can do is grip his shoulders, sinking my nails in.
“Don’t ever mention him—never,” I rasp. “Never. Never—”
“I won’t.” His voice drips into my ear, callously mocking. “I’ll just talk about you.”
Stung, I try to twist from his reach, but his arms tighten like a bear trap, crushing me to his chest.
“I’ll talk about how good you feel when you drop the nun act.” His mouth slips into the space between my shoulder and my throat, nuzzling the tender flesh there. “So good. Too good. I never taught you how to bite.”
Against my will, my limbs relax, which leaves me at his mercy. In response, his fingers catch at my hair, sinking through the tangled strands, surprisingly gentle.
“And that mouth. I will teach you how to use that properly.” His voice deepens to a merciless hum. “I’ll have you on your knees every fucking day, Rose. But you’re so damn selfish. I’ll have to use mine first, won’t I?”
He pauses but doesn’t seem to expect an answer.
“I’m going to make you beg for it though,” he muses, running his fingers along my scalp. “I’ll make you beg… And we have all the time in the goddamn world. I intend to make use of every fucking second.”
His threats shouldn’t feel like a welcome reprieve. His grated, malicious tone shouldn’t be enough to drive Sergei and his ultimatum away.
Violent lust shouldn’t be a comfort.
But it is.
I wake up alone, splayed out on the floor with a musty pillow shoved beneath my head and a threadbare blanket draped over me. Chaos resonates from the hall, presumably what drew me awake. An attack?
My ears strain in an attempt to decipher the stomping footsteps and raised voices.
“Who said you could get out of bed?” Mischa’s voice reaches me from beyond the door—but I’m not his victim for once. And he sounds different now from the harsh growl I’m used to. Almost…playful?
“Fine,” he snaps. “You think you can handle it? Go get dressed.”
Curious, I climb to my feet, bracing myself against the bedframe for balance. My dress is a crumpled heap tossed in a corner. Creeping toward it, I drag it on and advance to the door. Before I can reach for the knob, it’s opened from the outside.
The intruder grunts, startled by the sight of me standing here.
He’s changed into a fresh set of fatigues. In the shadows of the hall, his eyes gleam, flicking over me in a callous swipe. My chest constricts as I brace for an insult. Or maybe a cruel reminder of the night before?
Instead, he inclines his head and then advances down the hall, leaving me to follow. Seconds pass as I contemplate whether or not I should.
Playing with him is a dangerous game of hide-and-seek. My soul is the prize, and he’s ruthless in his pursuit. Just when I think I’ve found a safe place, he pounces from the shadows, eager to rip me to shreds.
“Are you coming?” he wonders from the bottom of the stairs.
Only when someone whizzes past do I realize he wasn’t speaking to me.
Mouse skips toward him, her hair in disarray. Wearing an oversized gray shirt as a makeshift dress, she looks younger than ever. The only clue of her injury is a slight stiffness in her left shoulder as she bounds down the stairs.
“Let’s play a game,” Mischa proposes when she appears at his side. His voice is louder than it needs to be. For my benefit, I suspect. He relishes in the fact that I’m spying. “How not to get shot or killed if we’re attacked. You have five seconds to run and hide.” He cocks his head and makes a shooing motion with his hand. “One… Two…”
Mouse takes off through the front door, navigating awkwardly over the uneven terrain beyond it.
“Don’t go beyond the clearing,” Mischa warns.
But three seconds later, he still hasn’t followed after her.
Only when I’m halfway down the staircase does he finally jolt into motion and stroll into the pale dawn. God knows why I follow him.
It’s cold out and my thin, filthy dress is no match. Mouse must be freezing as well, though Mischa doesn’t seem bothered by the chill. His shoulders are set with determination—he’s a man on a mission, apparently.
Paces away from him, I can no longer stay silent. “This is a cruel idea of a game.”
“Can you think of a better way for her to learn?” he counters. “Or should she just cower in a corner the next time your husband’s men come knocking?”
He looks over his shoulder, revealing the anger smoldering in his gaze. Maybe a hint of blame lurks there as well. I caused this.
Swallowing hard, I turn away from him and find myself eyeing the wooded clearing surrounding the safe house. The stone cottage might have been a family home once. A secluded haven possessing a flower patch, a small yard, and a rickety shed.
But now? It’s a makeshift fort in a two-man war.
“Is it even safe to be out here?” I ask. “I don’t see your men.”
The trees looming a short distance from the house provide only minimal protection. There’s no gate. No barbed wire. Nothing to slow a bullet or a trained soldier. I jump as underbrush crunches nearby and my heart hammers, spurring my unease. In every swaying shadow, I see danger. Movement. Robert.
“It’s safe enough,” Mischa boasts, suddenly closer. “And my men know how to hide, Rose. So don’t get any cute ideas of running.”
I hunch away from him, hugging my arms around my torso. “What is this place anyway?”
“Property,” he snaps. “And, for now, any Winthorp spies should steer clear. Your good friend Sergei has ensured that. Either way.” He shrugs, scanning the area surrounding the clearing. “She needs to learn.”
I bristle at the seriousness in his tone. “Learn what?”
“How the Winthorps play: dirty.” He fixates on a distant part of the yard where, at first glance, I see nothing.
Then a glimmer of golden hair flashes between a thicket of branches.
“Bang!” Mischa bellows, letting his voice ring throughout the clearing. Startled birds scatter in every which direction, and I marvel at his confidence. Despite his mistrust of the older Vasilev, he truly doesn’t seem worried. “I’ve found you. Try again.”
A dejected Mouse limps from around the base of a tree, her lips pursed. My pity lasts only seconds before she disappears again.
But not for long.
“Pathetic,” Mischa snarls a minute later. His new target is a monstrous pile of chopped wood. “You can’t hesitate. Try again.”
Sure enough, Mouse darts into sight and then races away.
For what feels like hours, he makes her hide before discovering her easily. Over and over. Behind brambles. Or trees, or sections of the house.
Finally, he advances toward another tree, huffing in exasperation.
“You’re dead,” he declares, yanking her from her hiding place. “You need to be more careful—”
“Mischa…” I watch my hand brush over his shoulder before I even register touching him.
“What?” He glares at my fingers and then follows my gaze toward Mouse.
She stands awkwardly in his grasp, huddled against the bark of the tree. In the pale light, it’s easy to make out a silvery substance glinting on her cheeks. Tears.
I start toward her, but Mischa crouches on one knee and grabs her arm, turning her to face him.
“I’ve scared you, haven’t I?”
The shift in his tone stops me in my tracks. The gruff soldier I know is replaced by…a man. One who sounds repentant.
“I’m sorry.” He reaches out to smooth a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “But I don’t want you to get hurt again. Do you understand?”
Swiping at her streaming eyes, Mouse nods.
Her face is red, her mouth trembling. But her brave veneer is no match when Mischa coaxes her into his arms and stands, lifting her entirely.
“I can’t see you hurt again,” he repeats, his voice low, just for her. “So if I have to teach you to hide so that no one can ever get close enough, I will…”
His gaze turns distant, and I don’t think he realizes what he’s doing: holding the girl in his arms so tight that no one could ever rip her away. He isn’t here but years in the past. With his sister, Aljona?
“I know.” My heart pounds as I step forward, though I’m not sure why I intervene at all. “Let’s play another game.”
They both jump at the sound of my voice. Aware of their scrutiny, I stoop and pluck a wildflower from an unruly patch at my feet. Pale blue, its thin petals stand out in stark contrast against the gray, overcast sky above.
“This is the most valuable thing in the world,” I say, holding it out to Mouse.
Still trapped in Mischa’s embrace, she eyes it warily before finally clasping her fingers around the stalk.
“You need to protect it,” I tell her. “Protect it with everything you have. And him?” I point to Mischa. “He’s the monster you’re guarding it from.”
Mischa meets my gaze, his look long and searching. Finally, he releases Mouse and sighs. “You heard her. Go!”
The girl takes off, slipping between the trees.
In her wake, the silence is so oppressive, like a noose around my throat. I can’t take it.
So like any prisoner sentenced to death, I meet my end with little fanfare.
“I forgive you,” I say thickly.
Seemingly intent on his prey, Mischa doesn’t even acknowledge I’ve spoken. But he’s listening. His shoulders tense with every word.
“And you can sneer and shrug it off. But I do. I refuse to let my life be ruled by petty grudges—”
“Forgiveness.” He grunts as if the concept is too foreign to understand. But, to my shock, when I glance at his face, I don’t find a smirk. He merely sighs, running his fingers through his wild hair. “As you say, Rose.”
