by Lana Sky
Near the table is a lone chair that I drag closer and sit on. I eat slowly to the soundtrack of the methodical motion of Mischa’s polishing cloth.
Finally, the sound dies off.
“Sergei,” he says as I pick at the remnants of food. “What did the old man say to you now?”
My hand stills, dangling a fork above my half-eaten vegetables. “What makes you think he has?”
He laughs. “Because you look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost. That’s why.”
I hear the thud of his boots striking the floor as he approaches me slowly. He savors the way I tense with every inch gained.
“And because… I’m not sure I trust him.”
He lets the statement linger and I know he’s gauging my reaction.
“Do you?” he asks when I remain silent.
I jump as he places his hand beside my half-eaten plate. “I don’t know.”
For all intents and purposes, the man seems genuine. But so could Robert Winthorp when he wanted to.
In this twisted game of men and money, I’ve learned that no one can be accurately judged at face value. Except…maybe Vanya.
“He’s a cunning, sly old fox, Little Rose,” Mischa insists against my ear. His breath fans my skin, erasing a chill I hadn’t felt until now. “Maybe it’s a family trait. But you’ve never asked: Why can Vanya barely stand to be in the same room with him? In fact, why would the man pledge his loyalty to me over his own brother? Think.”
“Why?” I ask on cue. “Though I suspect you’ll tell me anyway.”
He chuckles, but there’s a manic edge to the sound. This, I suspect, he’s been itching to tell me for a long time.
“Do you remember?” he wonders, leaning in so that his lips graze my shoulder. I suck in a breath and curl my hands beneath the table to disguise how they shake. “That stupid boy you think you saw all those years ago? The one who saved your life, believing that you were Briar Winthorp?”
“You,” I say hoarsely. “I saw you.”
He crept into my room and urged me to hide. In the process, he gave me the mantra that saw me through years of torment. Breathe.
“But do you know why we were really there, Sergei and I?” He circles around my position and braces his hands against the table from the opposite end. “Ask.”
“Why?”
“Revenge,” he says simply. “We weren’t aiming to merely whisk Briar away, oh no…”
His eyes darken in a way I’ve never seen before. It makes him look tired in a sense. A man who’s seen a lifetime of horrors and hasn’t forgotten a single one.
An ominous thrill runs down my spine as I brace my hands over the table’s surface. “What were you going to do?”
His jaw clenches as if to reinforce the grim statement he utters. “We were going to slaughter the girl in her bed, Little Rose. Butcher her into pieces.”
I wait for a laugh. A scoff. Anything.
As twisted as he can be, no man could be that cruel.
That evil.
But I wait in vain—he won’t spoon-feed me this story.
I have to demand it. “Why?”
“As a warning and a lesson,” he replies. “Don’t ever fuck with the Vasilevs.”
Chapter 14
I can’t disguise the shock distorting my features. My mouth is open, my eyes wide. Finally, I regain my composure enough to rasp, “That’s…evil.”
“Yes,” Mischa agrees, surprisingly earnest. “And if anyone should have agreed with that plan, it should have been Vanya, right? It was his daughter we wanted to rescue—or avenge if we couldn’t. He, more than anyone, should have been howling for Winthorp blood. But when he heard what Sergei planned…” He frowns, reliving the past. “He was furious. Livid. I didn’t understand why, not then. But he threatened his own brother’s life if he touched Briar.”
For my mother? My heart feels too battered to consider it, so I bite the thought back.
“You agreed with Sergei?” I ask, assuming the obvious: Two men came to me that night, creeping through the shadows of Briar’s room.
“I went with him anyway,” Mischa admits. “I thought Ivan was a stupid fool. Anna should have been his focus. Anna…” He grits his teeth and exhales harshly. “But when I saw her—you—I knew then and there which man I wanted to follow. Vanya may have been a fool, but…” He looks up and my heart pangs at what I find: something elusive but real enough that Vanya pledged his life to nurture it. “I’ve killed men before—with my bare fucking hands, even. But that was different. I couldn’t… Not that.”
“And that’s why Vanya loves you,” I interject. “He loves you like a son because he can see the good in you—”
“Or maybe I’m just a feral dog he wants to keep close.” He flexes his fingers against the table’s surface as if uncomfortable with that assessment. “Whatever his reasons, he left Sergei after that.”
My mind spins, fighting to reconcile this new piece of information with what I know now. If Marnie saved Anna, why not tell Vanya? Could she really be so cruel as to allow his daughter to rot in a Winthorp dungeon alone?
But even so, she did save his child in the end.
And Vanya saved hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I ask, returning my focus to Mischa.
“Because of this.” He reaches out, flicking his fingers accusingly along my jaw. “That look. Like you know me. Pity me. Tell me.” He leans in close, letting his breath ghost my cheek. “Am I worthy of your pity, Rose?”
My reply comes automatically. “Yes.”
He may be a brute and a monster and—at times—a psychopath. But his world shaped him this way. Somehow, someway, it hasn’t entirely consumed him. Not yet.
“Wrong answer,” he scolds as if it’s a mortal offense. “You should be afraid of me, Rose. Deathly afraid. Shall I tell you why?” He boldly sweeps his gaze down to the high neckline of my dress and my skin prickles with answering goosebumps. “Because the things I want to do to you… They aren’t very nice.”
His hand shakes as he reaches for me again, batting another strand of my hair. In the process, he brushes over the place Robert hit me and I flinch. Instantly, he withdraws and something I’m not expecting flickers across his face. Guilt?
“I’ll let you decide when I—”
“Tell me.” I risk meeting his gaze when he stays silent and my belly clenches at what I find brimming there. Only the most primal terms in my arsenal can describe it: raw, naked lust. “Those things you want to do…” I reiterate before licking my lower lip. “Was it all just talk?”
“Oh?” He chuckles low in his throat, cocking his head. More than ever, he resembles a snarling wolf ready to pounce.
And in response, I bare my throat.
“I want to rip that hideous dress off you, for one.” He casts my frock a glance of disgust. “Then I’ll wash you. Count those marks and divots in your skin, make sure every hair is still there, just as I left it…”
My breath catches. “And then?”
“I’ll remind you,” he says. “How to scream the only man’s name you’re allowed to say in full. Do you remember it?” His eyes flash as my lips part.
“Mischa…”
The involuntary grunt erupting from his throat spurs me on.
“Mikhailovich…Stepanov.”
“Good,” he praises thickly. His knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table. “But that wasn’t quite a scream...”
He rises to his full height and approaches me, skirting the barrier between us.
A million nuances in his posture stick out when they otherwise never would. The jerk of his throat betraying a hard swallow. The alarming gleam in his gaze.
How his muscles ripple, thrumming with ravenous intent.
I shudder in anticipation of his touch even before his hand cups my cheek and forces my head back. He eyes me like this, hunting my expression for something I’m not sure he finds when he draws me up to him and presses his mouth to
mine.
The kiss is slower than expected. Like two stray animals reconnecting after an unexpected absence. Has their dynamic changed? They’re unsure. Slow, searching touches become grasping exploration until they finally deduce what the other intends.
On his end? Corruption.
All at once, he pulls me from the chair and shoves me toward the bed. Seconds later, my dress is on the floor and he’s on top of me, guiding himself between my legs. There is no slow, teasing buildup—just surrender.
And possession.
Chapter 15
I wake up in Mischa’s bed alone. A new tray waits on the table in the corner, containing breakfast, judging from the smell.
Someone also left a pile of clean clothing at the foot of the bed. A smile tugs at my mouth as I inspect my options: a pair of jeans and a simple shirt.
But it’s the color that draws my notice: a hated shade of pink. Maybe Mischa’s opinion toward the hue has softened after all.
Once I’m dressed, I pick over the food—porridge, eggs, and toast—and then I slip into the hall, fully intending to take Sergei up on his offer.
But where Mischa mockingly goaded me to explore his own manor once, I suspect that Sergei has a different motive in mind, rather than to toy with me.
Now that I know it’s where my mother slept, the emerald room takes on a different atmosphere. Admittedly, the plainness holds none of the intrigue Mischa’s mother’s red room did, and after twenty-four years, there shouldn’t be much left to find.
Still, I swallow hard and push the door open, stepping inside as if for the first time.
Closing my eyes, I try to picture her here. Was the door locked behind her? Did she lie on that bed and pine for Briar?
It’s no use. The Marnie I knew can only be conjured in the opulent finery of Winthorp Manor, draped in pearls and expensive clothing. I can’t think of her as a captive or otherwise.
Maybe Sergei was lying?
But Anna wasn’t. My mother saved her life. Would she go so far for a man she hated?
Thinking of it all makes my head throb, and I reenter the hall, closing the door behind me. I don’t go far before commotion draws my attention to a nearby window.
Screaming?
My heart skips as I press my fingers against the glass. Is it another attack?
Thankfully, the reality seems far less nefarious.
A small boy runs across an emerald lawn, shrieking at the top of his lungs. Eli—and it doesn’t take long before I spot the source of his peril: a monstrous pursuer giving ruthless chase. Blond hair differentiates them both from the dark green of the lawn. From this distance, they resemble two versions of the same figure: one young, the other battered with age.
Suddenly, the larger of the two lunges, snatching the boy from behind, and they both collapse into a heap on the grass.
Not far from them stands Anna wearing a faint smile of her own. To any casual onlooker, they would appear to be the perfect family enjoying a lazy morning. It’s almost scary how well Mischa could fit into that mold when he wants to: caring protector. A father…
Watching them together should soothe the ache in my chest, but the discomfort only grows as I turn away.
Alone, I descend the stairs and eventually find my own way out to the garden through a back hallway.
At the center of a small, paved courtyard, Eli is now sitting near a plot of rose bushes, decapitating them while Mouse crouches in the dirt a few yards away.
“Hello,” I croak as they turn to me in unison.
“Hello!” Beaming, Eli wrenches a handful of roses from the bush. He waves them absently, spraying blood-red petals over his once-white clothes. “Are you back from heaven for good?”
“W-what?” A startled laugh escapes my throat, surprising me. “I don’t—”
“Eli!” Anna calls to him from paces away. “Come here, please.”
He looks at me, his nose wrinkling, before he dutifully races toward his mother, leaving me with Mouse.
For once, the girl acknowledges my presence with more than resolute silence. I think I see her mouth twitch slightly. A smile?
She’s holding a stick, digging persistently into the earth at the base of the bushes. The closer I come, her markings resemble something more deliberate. Letters?
D O N A T E L L O V A N
She stiffens, noticing my attention, and strikes her stick through the letters, erasing them. Then she stands and darts to another spot of the garden.
Sighing, I turn away and notice Mischa and Anna nearby. A chill washes over me as I watch them. Her slender frame paired with his bulk creates a striking contrast.
They stand close together, speaking in hushed tones. Mischa reaches out, grasping her arm as his lips move fervently. Whatever he says makes her eyes widen and she shakes her head.
“Please, Mischa. Please don’t—” She breaks off, noticing my approach. Her thin lips quiver as she forces a smile, but anyone could see the tears welling in her eyes. “H-hello. Excuse me.”
She slips past Mischa and scoops Eli into her arms. “You’re so filthy,” she scolds him playfully. “Time for a bath?” Bouncing him on her hip, she returns to the house.
“She’s protective of him,” I say and I watch her go, if only to fill the silence. Though what mother wouldn’t be, forced to raise a child among the Winthorps?
Mischa says nothing. He stares after her as well, his jaw tight. Then he shakes his head. “You,” he declares, pointing to Mouse.
She startles to attention, smoothing her hands along her simple gray dress.
“You still want to learn?” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a familiar object: his knife.
A slow, bright smile unfolds over Mouse’s features and she races toward him.
“Fix your posture,” Mischa snaps. “Stand tall—no! Straighter. Good.” Like a drill sergeant, he guides her into the right stance and then carefully molds her fingers around the handle of the blade. “Every time you strike, you mean it,” he tells her. “You may think a gun is more dangerous, but a knife is just as lethal, and bleeding to death is more painful than having your brains blown out. Trust me on that.”
I find myself watching them as I lean against a willow tree. Overall, Mischa makes for a firm though gentle instructor. He corrects her mistakes but praises her accomplishments.
“Good,” he says when she stabs at an imaginary foe. “Very good.” He eases the blade from her grasp, sheathes it, and returns it to his pocket. “You pick up fast. Now, go. Let’s see if you’ve gotten any better at hiding. If I can’t find you before dinner, I’ll pay you double.”
She takes off, dashing across the gardens. The second she’s gone, Mischa levels his searching stare in my direction.
“Tell me,” he taunts, beckoning me closer with a jerk of his chin. “I know something is circling that little brain of yours.”
“I’m thinking about her,” I admit, going with one of the safer topics consuming my thoughts. “Mouse. I’m wondering where she came from. Did you know that she’s twelve?”
“She is?” He glances in the direction the girl took off in. “I could always ask Nicolai if he knows more.”
“She drew a name into the dirt,” I add. “Donatello Van—”
“Vanici?”
From his tone, I sense a grim mixture of admiration and loathing typical for someone he considers a rival.
“A big player in the Italian mob. But I don’t think he has a thing for children.”
“Would that bother you if he did?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow “Maybe. Or maybe I’m lying to avoid picking a fight you seem itching to have? Though it doesn’t matter.” He steps in close. “Don’t get too comfortable. I don’t plan to stay here long,” he murmurs near my ear. “And when I decide to leave, I want you to be ready.”
“You sound like we’d have to escape—”
“In any case,” he grunts. “Be ready.”
I blink, caught off guard by
the honesty in his tone. For once, he lets me inside his head, and as chilling a proposition as it is, a part of me is more than eager to finally peek beneath his mask.
“Sergei is planning something,” he adds. “After years of inaction, he’s suddenly inserting himself into the fray. Something about it feels off. I don’t know why yet, but—”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
He exhales slowly, thinking it through. “I don’t know. But the man is always one step ahead. I used to admire that about him, you know. Most men want to shoot their problems in the fucking face.”
Himself included.
“But Sergei? He’ll make that ‘problem’ wind up with a bullet in its brain, all without seeming to lift a finger.”
“He knew my mother. But not in the way you think.” I hesitate. How much of this can I trust him not to spit at me later, twisted into a mocking taunt?
His eyes give me no answers. I have to trust him.
“He kept her here,” I add. “Vanya said… He told me that she wasn’t his captive.” I watch him carefully to gauge his reaction. Did he know that part of the story?
“Interesting.” He observes the grand structure behind me, his gaze narrowed. “This place has been in the Vasilev family for generations. Who knows what Sergei has stashed here.”
A sudden thought occurs to me. “Do you think Anna knew her, my mother?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Anna…” His lips part and close. Whatever he meant to say, he seems to rethink voicing it. Or not. “What do you think of her son?”
I flinch at the intensity of the question. “Her son?”
It’s as if, until now, there was a wall in my head, blocking off any thought of Eli. With one question, Mischa breaks that barrier down.
“He’s beautiful,” I blurt in a rush. “So beautiful. I don’t. I never—” I swallow hard, alarmed to find my eyes are watering. Before I can blink them back, tears fall. “I’ve never been around someone his age before…”
I’m being ridiculous. Furious, I swipe at my cheeks, smothering every bead of moisture into oblivion. Mischa merely watches me, offering neither judgment nor support.
