by Lana Sky
I lurch upright, shielding my breasts with trembling hands. “What are you doing?”
Mischa scoffs, eyeing my body as boldly as if he owns every inch. “Don’t tell me a haughty woman of your esteem plans to wear the same dirty clothing.” He extends his hand, revealing a wad of material I didn’t notice before. Fabric? He unfolds it for my inspection: a thick, gray shirt like the kind Mouse wore the other day.
But I doubt it will fit me as well as it fit her.
“Don’t stick your nose up just yet,” Mischa warns. Up until now, he was obscuring another garment behind his back: a pair of black pants. “I took these from the smallest man in my crew, but I doubt they’ll fit you well enough. You’ll just have to make do.”
He tosses both garments onto the floor near the tub.
“Thank you,” I croak, surprised despite myself. It’s like he read my mind. Though maybe he can? He scans my features as easily as one would an open book.
“Thank me? For ensuring that you don’t get the idea to walk around naked and tempt my men into doing your bidding?”
I scoff and turn my attention to my limbs. Steam rises from the basin of the tub as my legs redden in the heat.
“Doesn’t it exhaust you?” I wonder. “Being so damn paranoid?”
A sound escapes his throat, but I can’t decipher it. A laugh?
“Paranoid? I call it prudent.” He turns from me and lifts his shirt over his head, tossing it to his feet.
My eyes scan his body appreciatively before I can help it. His tattoos gleam, melding with his healing scrapes and wounds. The man is a canvas of darkness and blood. If I believed in demons, I’d wholeheartedly insist he was one. Sin in the flesh.
“See something you like?” he wonders.
Licking my lips, I croak, “What are you doing?”
“Are you the only one allowed to be clean?” He braces his hands over the rusty sink and leans in toward the mirror, observing his reflection. Whatever he finds makes him turn away and fish a rag from beneath the sink. After sniffing it, he shrugs. Apparently, it’s clean enough.
He wets it beneath the faucet and swipes at his face.
Watching him, I find that the only way to regain my composure is by utilizing the one weapon proven effective against him.
Speaking.
“You seem pretty calm,” I remark as I stretch out my sore legs. “For a man whose home just burned to the ground.”
He stiffens, and in the mirror, I catch his fleeting scowl.
“I’ve had many homes,” he says simply. Setting the rag aside, he wets his fingers and rakes them through his tangled hair. “Unlike you and your Winthorps, I don’t get attached to a pretty dwelling.”
“But that place was different,” I point out. “You called it by a name once. Pecavi?”
He ignores me, still combing through his hair.
But I can’t fathom his indifference. “Your mother’s things. Your sister’s… Won’t you miss them?”
He pushes back from the sink, but when he faces me, he doesn’t look angry. “And do you miss your mother’s things?” He eyes my neck.
I reach up automatically, clasping the tiny charm dangling against my collar.
“Don’t,” he scolds, and a curious thought makes me loosen my grip over my necklace. Have I insulted him? It seems I have. He’s still frowning. “I’ve had plenty of chances to take it from you—”
“I never had anything of hers to hold on to before,” I admit, referring to his previous question. “Not even a button or ring.”
“Well, I’d give up a million things.” He stoops for his shirt and pulls it on over his head. “Everything, to have more than a memory. And to avenge them, I will endure many fires and occupy a million fucking houses. Nothing ever changes.”
It’s a cold outlook. And a lonely one.
“So you don’t cherish anything?” I ask.
“What’s the point?” He shrugs and then jerks his chin to the running faucet of the tub. “Don’t spend the day wasting away, Little Rose.” He approaches the door and opens it, heedless of who might be walking by on the other end. “You need to be ready to move. Tonight.”
“To another safe house?”
“You better hope so.” He steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Regardless, his voice reaches me through the wood. “Because the only alternative is a Winthorp prison. At least with me, your fashion choices differ from a ball and chain.”
I listen to his steps retreat and hug myself as the water cools. By the time I finally climb out of the tub, I’m shivering. Thankfully, Mischa’s clothing provides a decent amount of warmth, and the pants aren’t uncomfortable. If I roll the hems a few times, they almost fit.
When I reenter the hall fully dressed, I can hear Mischa down below, marshaling his men to various tasks.
He claimed that property meant nothing to him, but I think it was a lie.
He’s comfortable like this, living in transience. There’s no stability to rely upon and nothing he could risk losing other than his life.
And if Mischa Stepanov seems to value one thing least of all.
It’s himself.
Chapter 6
I spend the day lurking in the shadows of the property with no real purpose other than to bide my time. For lunch, I eat with Mouse, who barely acknowledges my presence.
While she may communicate with Mischa easily, any question I voice her way goes ignored.
Alone, I settle into the corners of the house, watching Mischa from afar.
Did he mean the words he groaned to me in the forest?
Or perhaps his more recent boast conveys his true feelings? Nothing is worth holding on to for long.
Though the man does seem to cherish his power. He wields it effortlessly, almost without realizing the control he has over people.
“Get ready,” he says to me, noticing my silent observation once night has fallen. “Sergei will be here soon. His roaches are already scurrying around.” He nods to a man standing silently among the quiet chaos of packing and coordination going on around him. Instead of fatigues, he’s wearing black from head to toe and his build is sturdier than the agile men in Mischa’s crew. “Keep an eye on him and his little friends,” Mischa warns as I spot several other darkly dressed figures stationed at various points in the safe house.
“Spy on them?” I ask, but I’m intrigued despite myself. “Aren’t they on your side?”
“Side.” He scoffs, turning away. “Just tell me if they look too jumpy.”
I’m bored enough to take him up on his offer.
Unfortunately, Sergei’s men make for boring targets to spy on. They barely move even a step out of place. With a focused intensity, they observe Mischa’s men as disinterestedly as I observe them.
Eventually, it becomes obvious that the scruffy outlaw leader is a much more interesting target.
I find myself creeping into the hallway just to keep watch as he directs the movement of vans in the yard and dishes out more orders. The shadows of the house paint him, highlighting the contrast of gold and darkness that make up his core.
Strip him of the scars and tattoos and he could have been a different man in another life. Someone honorable. A teacher sternly directing students? Or a police officer? It’s terrifying how many possibilities could fit someone like him, armed with both authority and charm.
Redefining him consumes my focus—and I don’t even notice someone beside me until it’s too late. They brush past me and I jump, jarring my shoulder off the wall.
“Excuse me, miss,” the figure says, placing a steadying grip on my forearm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I rasp automatically. Even so, my fingers rub at the back of my neck as I look up into the stern features of one of Sergei’s “roaches.”
“My apologies,” he murmurs. “Let me make sure I didn’t—”
“You can let her go,” Mischa quietly insists from the entrance to the cottage. His eyes fixate o
n the man’s hand until he releases me, and I smother a sigh. It’s like he’s hardwired to sense the moment any other dog might so much as sniff the air near his coveted prize. “Besides.” He glances over his shoulder, frowning. “Your master is here.”
Sergei enters the cottage a heartbeat later. He and Mischa lock gazes, trading a million warnings between them, I suspect. Together, they move into the sitting room off the hall. Someone left a paper map unfurled over the couch and Sergei points to it, stroking his chin with his opposite hand.
“Did you have a destination in mind?” he asks.
“West.” Mischa positions himself near the doorway, his arms crossed. When I creep up beside him, he looks at me but says nothing. Returning his attention to Sergei, he adds, “I have a cabin there.”
“Another safe house?” Sergei raises an eyebrow. “May I make a suggestion?”
Mischa grunts. “I doubt I can refuse.”
“I suggest we regroup at my property. It’s close. It’s familiar, and I can supply more comfort to your guests than some shack in the woods.”
“Fine,” Mischa grates through clenched teeth. “We can go now. Gather your men. Lead the way.”
“As you wish.” Sergei exits the house, but paces down the front path, he calls back, “There is one thing we need to discuss, however…”
“Oh?” Mischa’s eyes narrow, eternally suspicious, and I’m close enough to catch that. “And what is that?”
“Where is Ivan?”
Mischa purses his lips. “I had him scout ahead,” he finally admits. “Why?”
“Because,” Sergei calls, sounding farther from the cottage. “We need to discuss what he might do when I tell him about his daughter.”
“Have you gone insane—” Mischa breaks off, glancing at me. “Don’t move,” he snarls before marching out to meet Sergei.
He shouts something. That’s all I’m aware of as I approach the doorway in their wake, despite Mischa’s warning. For some reason, I’m still swiping at my neck…but something’s wrong.
My limbs feel heavy.
Too heavy.
My hand goes limp, falling to my side, and I sway, forced to lean against the wall for balance.
I can still hear Mischa growling something to Sergei paces away.
“Mi…” I try to speak. Cry out. Anything.
But with every attempt, I make less noise.
Until the world goes silent entirely, and I fall into a sea of black.
I come to on a firm surface. The floor? No… The plush material beneath me isn’t the harsh wood of the safe house. Have we moved already? My head throbs as I try to remember.
Mischa…
Sergei…
They were talking about Vanya—but anything after is an ominous blank. One fact I am aware of, however, is that the figure standing over me, reeking of cologne, is not Mischa.
My eyes fly open and I look up, scrambling into a crouch. Sluggish limbs rob me of any grace, and I have to brace both of my hands against the unfamiliar carpet beneath me to stay upright.
“You’ve been drugged, miss,” the man says matter-of-factly. His face is strange. He isn’t wearing the gray fatigues of Mischa or his men, either. In stark contrast, a crisp black suit differentiates him entirely. “The effects should wear off in a few minutes,” he continues. “But to minimize any risk to yourself, I suggest you relax.”
“Sergei,” I rasp while blinking to bring the rest of our surroundings into clearer focus. We’re in a room with one exit—and the man just so happens to be positioned closer to it: a door opened only to shadow.
The room itself is spacious, containing a lavish bed draped in red sheets and a wooden wardrobe. Rich burgundy wallpaper betrays a finery I’ve only seen matched in Mischa’s manor as of yet. Is this place the property Sergei mentioned? My throat aches as I cling to that possibility—it has to be.
“Do you work for him?” I ask the man. “Sergei—”
“No.” The reply comes from someone else who appears in the doorway like a phantom in a nightmare.
Chilling familiarity paralyzes me, snuffing any ounce of air from my lungs. As I suffocate, I dig my nails into my palms, hoping the pain jars me awake.
I’m dreaming.
I have to be…
“He works for me,” the newcomer says, his voice a suave, polished tenor. “And he finally fucking earned his keep. Elle.”
Dressed in black, my husband surges forward. He cut his hair in my absence, though it’s styled in its familiar elegant coif. He’s as tall as I remember, but his thin build casts less intimidation than Mischa’s bulk. It’s his bruised, swollen left hand that draws my attention the most.
And it’s his eyes that make my heart hammer unsteadily.
Amber like fire, they brim with rage.
“You’re safe,” he swears, sinking to one knee. He reaches for me only to stop short inches from my face.
Because I’m filthy, reeking of dust, and the forest, and Mischa Stepanov.
Chapter 7
This nightmare doesn’t end when Robert pulls away and stands. I’m painfully awake and aware of every ounce of freedom slipping through my grasping fingers.
This isn’t a nightmare…
This is hell.
“She needs a bath,” Robert declares, gesturing to my body. “And send for the doctor immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” As if conjured from nothing, a woman appears by his side. Her plain dress denotes her as a maid, and she obediently stoops beside me, helping me to my feet.
“And rest,” Robert adds. His eyes sweep me over, brimming with rage I’ve never seen his aristocratic features manifest before. Hatred. Loathing. Fear? “I’ll make them pay,” he swears. “Those bastards will fucking pay.”
Have they already been captured? I try to picture Mischa and Vanya in chains as my gaze returns to Robert’s bruised hand. He holds it awkwardly, but judging from the greenish hue of his skin, I doubt it’s a fresh injury.
Despite everything, I can’t stay silent.
“Is he alive?” I force myself to ask. “Mis—”
“Stepanov?” Robert frowns and a familiar unease gathers in my stomach.
In so many ways, he’s the same man I was taken from. But there’s an aged quality to his gaze that wasn’t there before. A darkness. Gone is his old childhood ring Mischa presented to me on a bloody platter as well. In its place gleams a new, more prominent piece of jewelry: the heavier insignia I’ve seen worn only by his father.
“I’ll kill him,” he swears, brushing the tip of his finger along my cheek—as much of himself as he can bear to taint. “I’ll rip him to pieces. He will pay.”
But he hasn’t. Not yet. A painful emotion flutters in my chest as I sway, relying on the maid for support. I can’t even find a name for it until Robert finally leaves the room, flanked by his henchman.
Maybe it’s terror.
Or perhaps…
It’s hope.
The maid bathes me without uttering a single word—but where Mouse’s silence seemed stubborn at times, hers is deliberate.
There are no mocking taunts as she strips my clothing and coaxes me into the steaming tub of an ornate bathroom. There is no softness to her touch as she drags a rag over my bruised, swollen limbs. All in all, I’m treated mechanically, like a broken, battered object in need of restoration.
She doesn’t even look me in the eye as she washes my hair and combs through the ragged strands. To her, I am merely a doll dressed in a gossamer nightgown and led back into the room I woke up in like a lamb to slaughter.
My breath catches at the sight of the bed. It’s large enough for two people—and only one fact makes it possible to breathe again. Some things never change, and Robert Winthorp is a creature I’ve studied cover to cover.
As Mischa claimed, he never shared my bed. And he won’t try to reclaim my body so soon. I need to be broken in first.
Still, it feels like I’m clinging to a child’s prayer more th
an anything as the woman leaves, gently closing the door behind her.
Soon, another woman enters. The doctor, I assume from her crisp white jacket and studious bun. Without uttering a single word, she gives me a thorough, clinical examination. I shiver as her cold hands prod my inner thighs and healing scars.
Finally, she leaves.
And hopelessness washes over me, so vast and heavy that I’m sure I’ll never escape it. Dangerous thoughts feed on the panic. Do it now. Take the easy way out, like Marnie did.
I can’t go back.
I can’t.
I can’t.
Enough! I shake myself, lurching to my feet.
If Mischa is alive, I know the first conclusion he’d jump to: that I went back willingly. That I’m lying in Robert’s arms right now, laughing over the idiocy of the monster who deigned to show me a glimpse that he might be something more.
He’d be smug, Mischa, the bastard. He wouldn’t contemplate for a second that I would be pacing my gilded prison, aching to be anywhere. Dead. With him. Anywhere.
But my brain won’t let me take that cowardly outlook for too long. It keeps returning to him. I see his face, those flashing eyes. They offer a challenge: You want to prove me wrong, Rose? Then fucking run.
I rush to the door and test the knob. It’s locked.
Two windows, shrouded in scarlet curtains, are positioned on either side of the bed. I race toward one and draw the curtains back only to reveal the plywood nailed to it, obscuring any view. The second has been barred the same way.
Two additional doors lead to a closet and the bathroom. Apart from the bed, my only other piece of furniture is the wardrobe.
I’m trapped.
Tears well and escape before I can prevent their fall. I rub at them, but eventually, I wind up on my knees, against the wall, choking back sobs. They rip from me in dizzying waves, leaving my chest aching in the aftermath.
I barely hear the gentle murmur in between my gasping breaths.
“Shhh,” a woman urges. “Shhh, love. It’s all right. Shhhh. It’s all right.”
