by Lana Sky
“I need to speak with you,” he says, meeting us at the edge of the gardens. Though he speaks to us both, his eyes remain fixated on me. “In private, if you please.”
“Why?” Mischa demands. He steps forward, effortlessly inserting himself in between us. “Is there something you can’t say in my presence, Sergei?”
“No,” the man says calmly. “But I am sure there are some things that Ellen would not like discussed. Even in front of you.” He turns and beckons me with a nod. “I’ll be in the drawing room off the foyer.”
Mischa starts after him, but I place a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll be fine.”
When I enter the manor without him, I can sense his ever-present hesitation. Once again, his paranoia will fester. Can he truly trust me?
I can’t bring myself to look back and gauge which emotion wins out.
Instead, I force my shoulders back and navigate my way to Sergei alone. Sure enough, I find him in a large room lined with bookshelves. He’s standing near a row of windows, glaring out at the dimming sky. It’s easy to see the resemblance between him and Vanya now; they share the same contemplative, brown eyes and stern expression. But where Vanya radiates an exhausted neutrality, Sergei is always alert. Always watching.
“That was a remarkable performance the other night,” he praises, but I suspect that the compliment is more grudging than genuine. “You reminded me so much of—”
“Marnie?” I interject. My arms go around my chest. It’s instinct. A subconscious guarding against the cold shift in his posture. He’s standing taller, angled away from me.
It’s like he knows the topic on my mind before I even voice it.
“Why didn’t you tell me that she wasn’t taken? She willingly left the Winthorps.”
“Ivan told you that?” he scoffs dismissively. “Always the romantic—”
“So then what is the truth?” I’m too tired to disguise the pain in my voice. “Just tell me.”
“Fine.” He faces me, crossing his arms as well. “You deserve to hear it. Your mother wasn’t the naïve innocent that rumor and legend have turned her into. She was a cunning, intelligent, and—I’ll say it—ruthless young woman. The elder Winthorp forced her into marriage—did she tell you that?”
I lick my lips, unsure of just how much I should reveal. I’m on a different playing field than the battles I’ve fought with Mischa. There are no petty tricks or scathing insults to dodge. Sergei reminds me of a tactician, already twenty steps ahead, one wrong move from instant checkmate.
“She didn’t tell me much about her family,” I admit.
In reality, she told me nothing.
“Oh?” A satisfied gleam flits across his gaze, but the instant I place it, it’s already gone. “Do you know that the Winthorps liked to dip into the sex trade? Your mother was one of those unfortunate girls, plucked from obscurity, destined to be sold to some rich, old baron. Unfortunately, Robert Winthorp took a liking to her first. She was undeniably beautiful…” He trails off as if staring into the past, seeing her, this lovely, doomed creature. “But she was far smarter than the bastard gave her credit for. She tricked him into believing she loved him despite the circumstances of their meeting. So he married her. Worshipped the ground she walked on, and gradually, she convinced him to grant her more and more freedom until she could enter and leave the manor as she pleased.”
In some ways, the woman he’s described sounds more like Briar than Marnie: cunning to her own advantage.
“So why did she come to you?”
“Me?” He raises an eyebrow. “No, she went to Ivan. He was the liaison between the mafiya and the Winthorps.”
“They did your accounts,” I recall from what Mischa told me—but he never mentioned that Vanya oversaw that little arrangement. “In return, you protected their investments.”
“Yes.” His eyebrows furrow. Is he surprised I know as much? “Marnie went to Ivan with a proposition: She would tell him everything she knew about the Winthorp business if he rescued her and her daughter.”
“So there was no kidnapping.” I can’t tell if the hitch in my voice is due to shock or relief. “The whole start of this war was based on a lie—”
“Not quite,” Sergei corrects. “Winthorp was growing bolder. He planned to attack us eventually and control our territory himself. By warning Ivan, Marnie thought she was saving his life. She was also sly enough to ensure she got something out of it.”
Could the mother I knew truly be that selfless? And simultaneously selfish?
“So then what happened?” I prompt.
“Ivan came to me with her plan and I agreed to use my resources to assist in her escape. But, in the end, Briar was left behind.”
Something pinches in my chest. Jealousy? I know it’s selfish to feel it now. But a cruel part of my mind eagerly points out the glaring facts I want to ignore. Marnie sacrificed her freedom for Briar, but in return, she doomed me to a lifetime of hell. Did the fact that Vanya was my father make it easier for her to live with such a choice?
Maybe, as Mischa believed, her love had been a lie.
“How was she recaptured?” I ask, returning to the topic at hand.
“I don’t know.” Sergei meets my gaze, but I can’t discern a single emotion from his expression. “When she had a child roughly nine months later, I suspected that you were Ivan’s.”
“So why didn’t you tell him?”
He stiffens and eyes the knuckles of his hand. One by one, he curls each finger into a fist. A ring glints from one of them: silver, sporting the visage of a coiled serpent.
“Tell him what? That the woman he loved turned her back on him? That she would rather raise his bastard among the Winthorps than send her to her father? How could I tell my brother that?”
My chest tightens with the weight of such a twisted dilemma. I couldn’t imagine making a decision at all—but I’ve had twenty-four years to live with the consequences of his.
“So you left me there.”
“With your mother,” he corrects. “And when she died… I didn’t know your circumstances were as dire as they were. How could I?”
But something in me won’t accept that answer. “You told Mischa that I was the continuation of your line.” At least before Anna was found. “You said you knew about me since the day I was born. For someone who seems to care so much about your family, you have an odd way of showing it.”
“And I deserve your anger, yes.” He nods. “I deserve your mistrust, even. But for a second, think from your mother’s point of view. She kept you from your father, but perhaps that, more than anything, reveals her true thoughts of Ivan? Perhaps we were her pawns all along? After all, would you return your son to Robert Winthorp?”
“Don’t.” I cut off his scenario with a sharp wave of my hand. “Don’t you dare mention him. I never had a choice in how he grew up.”
“And if you could have done things differently?”
My heart breaks. “I would have never left him alone. Never.”
Even if it meant putting on a charade with Robert.
“And maybe your mother felt differently than you in that respect,” he says. “But now that you have been reunited with your son, what choice will you make?”
I grit my teeth at how effortlessly he’s managed to turn the tables. “Why do you care?” A suspicion creeps into my brain as if on cue. “Could it be because he’s the Winthorp heir? If Robert dies…”
Then Eli could stand to inherit it all.
“Maybe you should ask Mischa the same question?” Sergei steps forward and brushes his hand along my cheek. “It’s not my place to poison you against him—”
“You couldn’t,” I counter, but my voice falls flat. A weakness he doesn’t miss.
“I would caution you to carefully consider your circumstances. I didn’t kidnap Marnie Winthorp. I never brutalized her or made her a martyr, but can Mischa say the same?” His thumb grazes my branded cheek for emphasis. “The
re are some lines even I won’t cross. I wouldn’t use your child against you, and when you realize that, we can further this discussion.”
He moves past me for the door, but before he crosses the threshold, I call out, “You claim you wouldn’t use children, but what about Briar Winthorp?”
“Briar.” He stiffens with one foot still in the air. “What about her?”
Something in his tone makes me blurt my words out with no ounce of tact. “You were willing to have her killed when Anna-Natalia was taken. Weren’t you?”
It sounds so evil when paired with Misha’s supposed crimes. Ruthless.
But Sergei doesn’t flinch. “What could I possibly gain from the death of a little girl?”
Without giving me the chance to ponder that, he leaves.
On the surface, he has a point.
But the answer doesn’t take long for me to settle on. What could a man like him gain? Nothing material, perhaps. Not money or Winthorp prestige.
But I know firsthand what the death of a child could do to a woman.
You could break her irreparably.
You could change her loyalties.
And perhaps the cruelest aim of all: you could punish her.
Chapter 21
My room is a quiet refuge after my conversation with Sergei—but not for long. The second I lift my dress over my head, I hear the door open.
Cool air drifts in, ushering heavy footsteps. Alarmed, I cover my chest with my hands—but maybe the act is for show. Because I can identify my intruder by his scent alone.
“You don’t look very pregnant,” he declares, eyeing me up and down. “And I would like to think that I would notice.”
“Is that so?” I turn away from him, eyeing my reflection flung over the window. “I haven’t menstruated since I’ve been with you,” I admit, smoothing my hand along my abdomen. “And…I just know.”
His steps echo as he comes up behind me. “And now?” he wonders near my ear. “Do I treat you like a glass doll? No more sex?”
The scary part is how earnest he sounds. Curious.
“Would this really stop you?” I press my hand against my flat stomach as if shielding innocent ears from his answer.
“Maybe,” he admits, surprising me. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t touch you. Watch you.” He grabs my waist, guiding me against him. “I think I could enjoy that.”
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back against his shoulder. “I hate the way you toy with me.” I sound pained. Desperate.
“I hate the way you tempt me.” In retaliation, he runs his finger beneath my rib cage. Then he guides me to face him. “It’s like you’re a witch.” He laughs bitterly at his own descriptor as he startles me by sinking to his knees. “It’s the truth. You make me feel things, Rose… Devious little things. I’ve wanted to kill men before, but never like what I want to do to you.”
“Oh?” I shiver as his fingers brush the backs of my knees, urging me closer.
“Yes.” He nods, but against me, the motion feels more like a caress. “I want to destroy you. Devour you.”
“You sound like you want to hurt me—” I break off as his lips ghost my abdomen and flutter over my hip bones. My knees tremble. For stability, I sink my hands into his hair.
“Painfully. That’s how I crave you,” he whispers. “There is no sanity. No logic. When I’m with you, I crave every fucking thing I spent years telling myself I never wanted.”
Mischa Stepanov deny himself anything? “Like what?”
“More,” he admits, fanning his hands over my belly. “More than the mafiya. More than crushing Winthorp. You make me consider a life beyond it all. And I never wanted to before.”
Because this violence and conflict are all he has.
“But I’m going to watch your belly swell, Rose,” he promises between heavy breaths. “I’m going to watch you grow with my child. And…” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “And maybe I’ll change my mind.”
“About what?” I say, barely able to breathe.
He looks down and rests his forehead against me. “About it all. Maybe we could leave Winthorp behind. Runaway to that tiny strip of the world I know you’ve dreamt about. The place where violence and death can’t follow you. Only those worthy of sharing such a paradise with. Anna, and Vanya, and Eli, and Mouse…”
“But you can’t,” I whisper, dashing the fantasy before it can unfold.
“Because this is who I am,” he agrees, but for once, it’s not a boast. “And one day you’ll take your pretty eyes, and your baby, and your sweet little cunt, and you’ll leave me, Rose. Men like me don’t keep women like you for very long. Ask Ivan.”
“Shut up.” I curl my fingers in his hair and pull until a growl revs in his throat. “Just… Just tell me that you want me.”
“Want,” he chuckles and stands, trailing his lips up my torso the entire way. When he reaches my lips, he claims them, groaning at the taste. “I need you, Rose—but not like your precious husband did. You don’t keep me sane, or human, or anything like that.” He kisses me even deeper, guiding me into his arms. Against my parted lips, he says, “You make me think after years of hating, and killing, and feeling. I can finally fucking think.”
And he makes that simple fact sound more powerful than any other commodity I’ve known men to chase.
Including any amount of money.
I wake up in Mischa’s arms, but my first instinct isn’t to squirm, or endure, or count down the seconds. I turn the tables instead and observe him in the pale light of dawn streaming in through the window. He’s deeply asleep, lying on his back, with my body crushed to his side. Even unconscious, he’s possessive.
I can’t stop myself from touching him when he’s like this. He’s handsome while peaceful, irresistibly so. For a second, I toy with the idea of what his child might look like. Perpetually angry, with a head of wild hair? Would they have his dark eyes as well? Or maybe blue, like Eli’s…
Sergei’s warning intrudes on the innocent thought: Does Mischa intend to use him for his own gain?
I pull my hand away and it’s like flipping a switch. Mischa opens his eyes, homing them on me. He shifts and captures my wrist, resettling my hand over the tattooed flesh above where his heart resides.
“See something you like, Rose?” he wonders, his voice husky.
“What do you see when you look at me?” I ask. “A pawn? A willing victim? Or is it leverage—”
He sighs and releases me. “Someone hasn’t been paying attention.”
I wait for him to shove me off and storm away, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I. With my face against his chest, I can hear his heart beating. The steady, gentle thrum is my translator for whatever his face doesn’t express. He may be wearing a shadow of a scowl, but he isn’t angry.
He’s…content. Such a strange concept that I have to feel it rather than observe. In him, peace is expressed in slow, heavy breathing and muscles that twitch only slightly when I run my fingers over them.
“Maybe I need to hear you say it out loud?” I counter, using his saying to my advantage.
“Hmm.” He hums low in his throat and then looks down on me from across the scarred, tattooed planes of his chest. “Out loud… How about: Robert Winthorp begged for you the second I realized you weren’t Briar? He offered millions to have you back. He even offered to trade his own sister. Then he killed his father with his bare hands. By then, you weren’t of any use to me but as bait, so what reason would I have for keeping you?”
I mull over the question, trying to view the world as he does, where everyone has a price tag—even little girls who are intentionally silenced in order to play a role in some criminal enterprise.
“You could want to use me as a sex slave?” I venture to guess. “You did threaten to sell me.”
He scoffs. “I beat Kostatantin Vorshev within an inch of his life—not because he was a lying cunt, selling me out to Winthorp. No… Because he touched you. He hurt you.” He reac
hes out, dragging his fingers along my cheek. “I kept Mouse—not that I would ever sell her back to Nicolai—but I kept her here because she reminded me of you. You look at me the same fucking way: like you’re waiting for the moment I’ll pull out my knife and run you through.” He laughs, but it’s a hollow, empty sound. “And if you’re worried about him. Your son…” He tilts his head back, eyeing the ceiling. “There is Robert Winthorp in him. I can see it. He can be ruthless when he plays.” He laughs, and it’s real this time. “He declared ‘war’ on the roses in the garden and decapitated an entire bush of them. That boy is definitely a Winthorp.”
I stiffen, but not out of fear. It’s the first time he’s said that name with something other than hate lacing it: admiration?
“But he has more of you. His eyes. His laugh. As young as he is, he isn’t afraid to show compassion or guilt. I think he’ll grow up just fine, Rose.”
I look away, blinking rapidly. “Thanks to Anna.”
“No.” He guides my chin into the palm of his hand, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Anna may be part of it, but some of it is you.”
“And do you think you can use him in ways you’re unwilling to use me?” I have to ask him.
He sighs. “I should be. I’m sure Robert would pay just as much or even more to have him back. But I’m a selfish fuck, Rose.” He sits up, bringing me with him, and pushes the covers back. “He isn’t going anywhere.”
My heart swells, sensing the ruthless promise contained within that boast.
“Thank you,” I rasp.
“But he’s not the only reason you’re worried,” he suspects. “I’ve seen you watching me and Anna together.”
I bite my lip, but the pain does little to counteract the flood of fire searing my cheeks. “You loved her. I can understand that—”
“I still do,” he says. “But not how you think. We grew up together. In some ways, we were more like siblings than anything else. And if something more might have come from it…” He shrugs and slides his arm from around me. Before I can mourn the loss of heat, his hand captures mine. “We will never know.”
