by Lana Sky
“No one will touch him,” he swears, and despite everything, I believe he thinks that. “And as for Sergei? You think he is the reason I’d hand the wife of my enemy a seat at the fucking table?”
The harshness in his tone makes me remember the role he and Sergei elected me to: a head.
“What does it even mean?” I demand as he comes to stand beside me.
“You have that power you crave, Rose,” he coldly replies. “Enough to do way more than pout in the shadows if you wanted to. Not only that, but do you think I’d announce before the whole fucking world that I have access to not one, but two people Robert Winthorp would kill to reclaim? Leverage I have yet to use. Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.” He laughs darkly, revealing that it has. Multiple times. “But no. I didn’t do it for him. I did it for you.”
“Me?” I scour the tightness of his jaw, searching for any nuance in his expression.
Downcast, his gaze reveals nothing.
“He has your eyes.” His voice is so gruff that I barely hear him. His own eyes track the boy as he races around a bed of flowers. “And that bastard…he told him about you, did you know that? He taunted him with your picture. Told him you were dead. Though I’ll admit it: I knew even before I saw him that he was still alive.”
I stare at my hands, envisioning the life ripped from them four years ago. In such a relatively short time, he’s grown into his own person. All without me.
Only someone like Mischa could clearly anticipate such a reality.
“How?”
“Because I know how Winthorp’s sick, twisted brain works—that’s how. He may have resented your pregnancy, but there’s no way in hell he would deny himself of not one, but two people he could manipulate and control to worship only him. And to ensure as much, he’d keep you apart and use your own longing for each other as a prison. That is the kind of man he is.”
He sounds far too confident in that assessment. In the pit of my soul, I know why: In another world, he might have done the same thing. The truly evil Mischa who would have killed Briar without hesitation and whom even Vanya couldn’t save.
“And if Eli is my son?” I demand. “What will you do now? Lock him away if I don’t support your stupid war? Threaten to sell him? No—” My heart won’t let me even consider it. “I’ll kill you if you do. I swear I will—”
“What I want?” He pulls ahead too quickly for me to keep pace. Like a storm cloud, he descends on the idyllic scene, heading right for the boy.
“M-Mischa.” Anna pales when she sees him. “Eli,” she calls, but the boy doesn’t seem to hear her.
“It’s all right.” Once he reaches her, Mischa places his hand on her back. “It’s all right.”
She looks at me warily as Mischa tries to lead her down a path. Her gaze cuts to Eli.
“It will be all right,” Mischa says.
They don’t go far. Just far enough that Eli turns, confused to find me instead. His eyes cautiously meet mine, but he doesn’t say a word. He merely continues to play, chasing specters in between the rose bushes. Cackling, he decapitates a bloom at random, scattering the petals at his feet like so many droplets of blood.
There is something so beautiful in his innocence.
So painful.
Tendrils of hope and fear encircle my heart, piercing and encasing it. Like vines studded in thorns.
My mother said that hell was like a rose—but that was the nicest way of phrasing it.
War, violence, and death can cause untold pain, but one emotion above all delivers the truest form of agony.
It slices you into pieces, but you can’t help but relish every gaping, bleeding wound.
I once told Mischa I’d never felt love.
But that was a lie.
I’ve never stopped feeling it.
And now?
All I can do is watch its original source, oblivious to the passage of time.
Sergei must be brooding in his defeat, because dinner is a quiet affair held in a plain dining room and Vanya is the one who comes to the gardens to summon us.
Eli skips to Anna, who bundles him in her arms, while Mischa lurks at the outskirts of our ensemble, watching me.
He doesn’t stay long. After downing a glass of wine and a few bites of food, he stands and declares, “I’m going to train.” On his way through the doorway, he points to Mouse and then Eli. “You two. Come and learn.”
Both children scramble toward him in a stampede.
Anna starts to stand as well. “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“Eat,” Mischa says. He grabs Eli and throws the boy onto his back while Mouse slinks past him, darting into the hall. “We won’t be long.”
Vanya stands as well. “I’ll make sure no one loses an eye,” he mumbles on his way out.
Finally, Anna sighs and meets my gaze. “I don’t want you to think that I’m some evil, selfish woman—”
“I don’t.”
She inhales sharply and stares down at her hands. “He… He’s all I have. I’ve spent four years devoting every waking moment to him. And now…” Her eyes meet mine accusingly. “You’re a stranger. How can I just abandon him? I’m the only mother he’s ever known.”
I say nothing.
“I knew you weren’t dead,” she says after a moment. “Even though Robert insisted. I knew. I just thought you were some rich, careless woman who didn’t want him. Maybe thinking as much made it easier to hate you. I couldn’t feel sympathy for that woman. It did make it easier. I could give him everything if his mother never wanted him in the first place.”
“I don’t expect you to stop loving him,” I rasp, my throat tight. “I don’t—”
“You just want to know him,” she says. “Deep down, I know that. But I can’t help feeling like…” She chokes a sob back and tears at her hair. “Like I’ve woken from a nightmare, but everything I’ve ever had now belongs to someone else. Honestly, I’m not sure if I prefer the nightmare.”
She’s referring to more than just Eli. Vanya? And Mischa.
“I don’t think I can ever stop seeing him as my son.”
“You don’t have to,” I say in a rush. “But I want… I want to learn to see him in that way too.”
Marnie hid me from the world. Maybe she was ashamed of who my father was. But I know now that I refuse to do the same. There is no mistaking that Eli has parts of Robert.
But, as Mischa pointed out, he also contains pieces of me.
“I don’t want to take him from you,” I admit to Anna. “I couldn’t.”
“And it isn’t my place to deny him his mother,” she replies, smiling weakly. “Even if I wish he could stay mine forever.”
In awkward silence, we pick at our food. Finally, Anna reaches across the table, brushing her hand over mine. “You aren’t hungry?”
I look down at my untouched plate. “I don’t think so,” I say.
“I see…” She eyes me for so long that I’m not sure whether to question her or leave. Finally, she sighs. “Robert wasn’t a terrible father, per se. In fact, I don’t think he even knew how to be one. He kept his son well-fed and protected, but he never held him. He never soothed him when he cried. He saw him rarely… Mischa?” Her gaze turns wistful and darts toward my stomach. “Misha would be different. Anyway, I think I’m going up to bed.”
She gingerly gathers up her plate and I copy her. Together, we ascend the stairs, silent creatures, victims in this brutal war.
We’ve both lost an untold amount as collateral.
But in a twisted way, we’ve gained more than we could ever have imagined as well.
Chapter 19
Of all the places in the world, a cold, foreboding fortress should be the last one would expect to find children shrieking through the winding corridors, chased by a specter whom I can only discern from their giggles is the worst kind of monster.
The kind whose identity is alarmingly easy to suspect as I rise from my bed and get dressed in a pair
of jeans and a loose-fitting top.
I leave my room only to be nearly run over by Mouse. Grinning, she skirts past me and rounds a corner. Not far behind is Eli, cackling madly. Bringing up the rear is a stranger. A care-free laugh booms from his chest as he moves slowly, ensuring that every footstep echoes like thunder.
“I can hear you,” he growls as the children scatter deeper into the house. “You better run—”
His wicked grin falls flat the moment he spots me, and the illusion is shattered.
“Rose.” Drawing himself to his full height, Mischa inclines his head toward my room, a subtle command. We need to talk.
After everything he’s put me through, I should run. I start to, but he’s beside me in a second. His fingers interlace with mine, locking tight when I try to wrench away. He all but shoves me into my room before quietly closing the door.
“As much as you love to play the victim, I won’t let you this time,” he warns. “You can hate me if you want. But don’t you dare skulk around like a fucking prisoner—”
“Then how should I act after having my personal drama exposed to your fucking society?” I ask, jutting my chin into the air. “You tell me.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Like this,” he admits. I shudder as he brushes his hand down my shoulder. I was on guard for violence—not this. “A haughty little bitch. One who may have a point—”
“A point? Maybe I should lead by example?” I suggest, shrugging him off. “I’ll share my own little secret in private, without an audience.”
“Oh?” He cocks his head as his expression darkens. “Let me guess: Robert Winthorp still has your soul and it was never really mine to claim? A bit anticlimactic, Rose, but not entirely unexpected—”
“No.” Balling my hands into fists is the only way I can keep from hitting him. “I… I think I’m pregnant.”
He blinks and that mask he wears so doggedly around me cracks. “Are you sure?” His gaze lowers to my stomach. “Is it mine?”
I slap him—but his question didn’t trigger the action. It’s how he asked it. Hesitant and coarse, as if he wasn’t sure of the answer.
And, for once, his confusion isn’t played as a joke.
“Who else’s would it be?”
He frowns and I understand.
“Fine.” I throw my hands into the air, forcing a cold laugh. “It’s Robert’s. I threw myself at him after being dragged back into my old cage. Does that make you feel better? Now, you have three pieces of ‘leverage’ to use against him—”
“Stop it.” He grabs my arm, but the touch lacks any malice. He merely uses the limb as a leash, keeping me close. “Tell me.”
“Does it matter to you so much?” I demand, exasperated.
“Maybe I just need to hear you say it?” His voice deepens, radiating a warning. “Is it mine?”
“Forget it.” I shake my head and laugh again. I sound insane. Maybe I am. He’s finally driven me past the brink. “Forget all of it. It’s not like someone like you could ever be a father anyway.”
He recoils. “And what kind of woman would willfully deny her child one?” His voice chases me as I lunge for the door and throw it open. “A selfish bitch, though why am I surprised?”
“Don’t,” I whisper hoarsely as my steps falter in the doorway. “Don’t you dare.”
I brush my hand against my chest, a weak protection against an impending assault.
Like any wolf, he doesn’t just bite.
He aims to maim.
“It’s in your blood,” he hisses. “Like mother like daughter.”
I run, racing past a corner where giggles emanate. Panting, I leave the house and venture beyond the outskirts of the woods, vanishing beneath the trees.
Sergei Vasilev owns miles of land. I walk until my legs ache and I can’t go a step farther, but I have yet to approach a barrier or land marker. For all of Mischa’s hatred of the Winthorps, what makes his world any different? The secrets are the same, as are the twisted lies. Which man’s story is more accurate. Sergei’s? Or Vanya’s?
Hunched against the trunk of a tree, I can’t decide. My heart warns me to trust one man more than the other. Vanya. But that muscle is a fickle fucking thing. It hurts now when I think of Mischa, but not in the way that it should. I need to hate him. Despise him. Anything but parse over the agony I saw lurking in his expression.
Like I was the one who hurt him despite the man doubting me at every turn.
But so what if he does? It’s growing increasingly apparent that everyone in my life has only ever seen me as a tool, or a burden, or a secret to hide. Never as a living, breathing, bleeding person with a soul of her own.
I should just run. Disappear into the ether and leave the war and its casualties behind. My heart pangs as I think of Eli, but he already has a mother. Yes. I shift to my knees and feel along the tree bark for a branch to help me stand.
I find one, but it breaks off the second I apply pressure and falls onto my shoulder, lashing at my cheek. Laughing, I ignore the slight pain and curl into a ball.
I could fade here instead. Just let the world go on without me.
As if it would be that easy.
I hear them first: footsteps crashing through the undergrowth. Then his voice rings out, more grated than ever.
“Fuck… No, fuck!”
I open my eyes as he staggers toward me and snatches the branch away.
Frantic, he grabs my shoulders. “Can you hear me? Rose? Can you hear me?” He brushes the hair back from my face and sways when he sees me staring back.
“I’m fine,” I admit.
“Thank God.” He stands, helping me to my feet.
“I’m going back if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say, starting in the direction I assume the manor is in. “I don’t require an escort—”
“Fine. So it’s Robert’s.” He grabs me from behind, sliding his hands to my waist. “You can even name it after him. I don’t care.”
The heat in his voice eats away at any anger I feel. All that’s left is just…pain.
“Don’t you ever doubt me like that,” I say hoarsely. “Never.”
“I won’t,” he swears into the skin of my throat. “I won’t… But you don’t leave.”
I blink rapidly and swallow, fighting for air. “I want to trust you, but every time I try… You attack me.”
“Something in me won’t let me believe you, Rose,” he admits. “Even if I want to. I can’t. If I let you in, you’ll hollow me out. You’ll rob me of everything I have left, and I need to fucking fight. Or I’ll be like—”
“Vanya?” I ask.
His arms tighten, giving me his answer. “He told me a story once,” he says gruffly. “When I asked him why he gave up so fucking easily. Why he let me take the reins, even though the only reason anyone followed me and not Sergei was because of him. He became a shadow of who he was, Rose. Maybe for the better, but…he was still broken.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me about a woman he knew.” He sounds distant, as if he’s relaying some sordid fairytale he hasn’t deciphered yet. “A woman who showed him what love was.” He laughs and I doubt it was a cherished lesson. “He said it was like a rose. Beautiful, but painful. The thorns dig deep. They cut through you, but a part of you still won’t let it go.”
“Is that the real reason why you call me Rose?” I ask in a thready whisper. “To mock me?”
“To warn myself,” he replies. “I always fucking knew… You’d cut me into pieces.”
“I want to trust you.” My hand goes to my stomach before I can help it. At the moment, it’s flat, seemingly empty. “I need to trust you. So stop pushing me away every time I try.”
“I will… But I need you to promise me—right fucking now.” He turns me to face him, his eyes like midnight. “You won’t ever use this against me.” He gestures to my belly. “That you won’t ever turn against me.”
My lips part, but it’s a promise
I’m not brave enough to make just yet. All I can do is take his hand, intertwining my fingers with his. “Learn to trust me and I won’t ever have a reason to betray you.”
“Trust.” He leans in, mulling over the word like it’s a foreign concept. “I’m sure that includes many avenues we can build on. Thoroughly. Maybe we’ll live out that fantasy yet.”
My cheeks flame as I recall his vision of the future: me, giving him multiple children.
“But first…” He draws back suddenly serious. “I’m going to drive the nightmares from your skull. For good.”
Meaning Robert Winthorp and this stupid, petty war. Did my mother know the chaos she’d leave in her wake with such a simple lie?
As Vanya stated, Mischa doesn’t even know the extent.
“How?” I ask.
He hesitates and I can see the war within himself playing out across his features. Hatred and desire. Finally, something wins. “We’re going to cut the serpent off at its head.”
In other words: kill Robert.
“When?”
“Soon.” He stares off into the distance. “Fairly soon.”
“And when it happens, you’ll tell me?”
“Yes.” He looks down, meeting my gaze. “I’ll tell you, Little Rose. As promised, I’ll even let you twist the knife.”
Chapter 20
Mischa seems to think I hate Robert—enough to want him dead—but I’m not sure if that’s the case. Can you hate someone who merely exploited a willing victim?
Everything he did was never forced—even the supposed death of our child.
I just never questioned. Like a good doll, I merely accepted every explanation he deigned to toss my way.
You can’t blame a wolf for devouring a doe.
But you can blame a monster cunning enough to deceive his prey. One who enjoys watching his victims squirm in anguish. After all, the wolf only seeks to sate a primal urge, but the monster?
He desires control above all else. Power.
And, for whatever reason, the only man to come to mind in that context is Sergei.
He finally makes his reappearance as Mischa and I return to the manor as the first hints of darkness creep along the horizon.
