by Lana Sky
I shrug. “You just have to react. Intuitively.”
Like starving yourself out of spite due to an insult.
Or attacking someone, claws drawn, when they expect you to surrender.
Desperation is the only tactic that can’t be outmaneuvered.
“There is no way to outwit someone like that,” I say, meeting Mischa’s probing stare. “You can only retaliate.”
“Hmph.” He chuckles deeply, but there’s no mocking in his tone. Admiration instead? “Now, you are thinking like a member of the mafiya. So tell me, Rose: How do you plan to react to him?”
Mafiya history lessons seem more like horror stories. Murderers who command respect through their gruesome deeds. Drug smugglers. Politicians who deal in lies. The insights haunt me all night, circling my brain until morning comes.
Mischa plans his “banquet” with little fanfare. It’s almost insulting compared to something one might have found at Winthorp Manor in its heyday. There are no four-course meals planned or tables draped in finery. In fact, the meal itself seems secondary to the true main course: intrigue.
“There,” Mischa says against the nape of my neck. “Watch them. Do you remember your lesson?”
We stand positioned near a window overlooking the front of the manor. The setting sun reflects off a row of black vehicles lined up in the courtyard like children’s toys.
One by one, various figures exit them.
“There’s Boris Lynchkoft,” Mischa remarks, referring to a balding man in a tight suit being ushered from a limo by two men who I assume are bodyguards. “And he…”
“Runs a drug trade,” I rasp, recalling my “history lesson.” “He isn’t loyal to Sergei per se, but he doesn’t like you, either.”
“Good. And him?” He points to a different man exiting a dark sports car this time, flanked by even more muscle.
“Andrei Zagitov,” I say. “He launders money through a shipping operation he owns. Also a somewhat neutral party. Him, along with Alexi Somodorov,” I add, nodding to a different man strolling up the stone path to the manor’s entrance. With a head of silver hair, he’s the oldest man of the bunch. “He controls mercenaries and makes up the last party whose alliances you’re unsure of.”
“Very good.” Mischa flicks his thumb along my chin, guiding my face toward him. In his eyes, I see something that may be amusement. He isn’t scowling for once, either. “You may be able to play the game yet, Rose. But…” He cuts his eyes down to my dress—one of the few from the wardrobe in my room—and frowns. “Not like this.”
“Oh?” I smooth my hands along the cotton skirt. “I never knew you had such an interest in fashion.”
“Fashion?” He scoffs. “It’s presentation. The wolf can’t show up to the den dressed like a sheep.”
“I didn’t know you were poetic, either,” I remark dryly.
“You don’t know a lot of things about me, Rose. But I do have a feeling that Sergei won’t supply you with a dress this time. At least not one fit for a wolf.”
He takes my hand, leading me back through the upstairs level of the manor and into my room.
Sure enough, a dress is waiting for me, draped over the end of my bed.
But I doubt Sergei had a hand in choosing it.
“I guess wolves wear red in your world?” I croak, breathless.
Mischa cups my waist, guiding me back against his chest. “This wolf,” he murmurs near my ear. “She is cunning and sly, and she bathes in the blood of those foolish enough to trust her.” I stiffen, but he brushes his lips along my throat, negating any insult his words may contain. “Put it on.”
With him on my heels, I approach the bed and run my fingers along the garment: a silk gown composed of a stunning shade of scarlet.
“It’s beautiful—”
“Here.” Mischa helps me shed my dress and ease the new one over my head.
Spotting my reflection in a nearby mirror, I certainly don’t look like my mother.
Or Briar.
I’m someone new, clothed in blood red that highlights her healing wounds and injuries. Paired with the man beside me, I don’t resemble a captive, either.
“Your necklace.” Mischa runs his fingers along my neck, highlighting the absence of my rose charm. “It’s gone—”
“Robert took it.” I brush my fingers along the hollow spot as my heart pangs. The one thing I may have had of Marnie’s, lost. “But I’m sure that means nothing to you. Mr. ‘there is no point in getting attached to things.’”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “Only a fool would ever think there was something meaningful in some worthless trinket.”
My face heats, but the second I try to pull away, he grabs my shoulder. I jump as something tickles my collar. When I look down, my eyes go wide.
“So consider me a fool, then,” he grumbles while manipulating a slender, golden chain in one hand.
I gape as he fastens it around my neck. It’s longer than the other one, sporting a delicate charm that takes my breath away: a rose in full bloom.
“It’s lovely,” I whisper, brushing my fingers along the charm. “I don’t know what to—”
“Enough.”
I sense him lean into me, his mouth in my hair, his breathing slow and heavy.
With my free hand, I reach back and find one of his, clenching tight. My body relaxes into him, fitting neatly within the rugged contours that make up his bulk. When I feel a telltale hardness against my hip, I press against him, drawing a groan from his lips.
“No.” He pulls back, sliding his hands down my thighs until the last possible second. “If you tempt me now, we’ll be late…”
I turn and find him eyeing me from head to toe, his eyelids lowered.
“Very late.” When he bites his lip, I know he’s mulling over that very possibility, weighing the pros and cons. Then he sighs. Apparently, politics trumps all else.
Even sex.
“But. First, my wolf needs to bare her teeth.” He positions me with my back to him and runs his fingers through my hair. Within seconds, it’s arranged into an elegant coil.
“And now what?” I ask as he observes his handiwork, finally satisfied.
“Now, we enter the den.” He extends his hand and captures one of mine. “But, this time, we remain as allies.”
If I am a wolf, then Sergei resembles a bear. Approaching him head-on would be suicide, and the man relishes in his obvious strength. Once again, we’re gathered in the grand hall. The marble floors magnify every sound, making those of us here—fifty at most—sound like hundreds.
Sergei holds court near the back of the room, surrounded by those of the council I recognize as having supported him at the last gathering. A black suit helps him cast an imposing aura damn near everyone succumbs to—Mischa included.
His grip tightens over my forearm, keeping me close to his side. Then he seems to realize his reaction and gradually loosens his grasp until we’re standing apart entirely.
“This is an arena you’ll have to navigate on your own, Rose,” he murmurs as if reading my mind.
Childish panic goads my heart into beating faster. “What happened to us still being allies this time?” I demand, eyeing his clenched jaw. “Changed your mind already?”
“No. But every wolf needs to learn to hunt.” His hand brushes my lower back, providing subtle reassurance while nudging me forward. “So hunt.”
Before I can turn around, he’s gone, slipping to the back of the room to strike up a conversation with a figure not mentioned in his “history lesson.”
Alone, I spot Sergei already mingling with two of my three targets. The only remaining figure to approach happens to be the most intimidating enigma on my list, per Mischa: Alexi Somodorov.
He stands, eyeing a portrait hanging near the center of the room, his back to all other inhabitants.
Supposedly this man is second only to Sergei in terms of sheer ruthlessness. He murdered plenty of Winthorp associates, adding to th
e victim tally of this twisted war.
I approach him slowly as fear gnaws away at what little resolve I have. Hunt, Mischa told me.
But in what instance?
My role is nothing more than a formality. What power could a battered wife and illegitimate bastard truly command among such men?
“Look who deigns to grace me with her presence?”
Startled, I realize I’ve drawn even with Somodorov already.
He acknowledges my presence with a hiss, his eyes casting me a dismissive glance. “Robert Winthorp’s whore.”
I swallow hard as fire paints my cheeks. A part of me bristles at the insult, and I know what Mischa would do if he overheard: flex his muscle. Demand obedience.
But I am not him.
Tilting my head back, I meet the man’s gaze directly, forcing him to maintain the eye contact far longer than comfortable. After all, only a coward would dare look away from a whore.
“I guess that means I know him better than anyone,” I counter, surprised by how little my voice wavers. “Doesn’t it?”
The man grunts and returns his attention to his painting. It depicts an ancient battlefield, where blood and mud churn in a sickening mass beneath fighting soldiers.
“I suppose so. But make no mistake, girl. I am not one of the besotted fools who think you may have some worth. Mischa called this little party for a reason. What?”
“No reason,” I admit. “I simply wanted to learn.”
“Oh?”
“I wanted to see for myself if any of you men truly have anything more to offer the world than someone like Robert Winthorp?”
His eyes flash and I know I’m on dangerous ground. Mischa relies on brute strength, Sergei on cunning, but what kind of combatant am I?
Neither, I’m realizing.
My strength may lie in something between the two. A skill that only a “whore” might possess and be willing to wield to its full potential. Something within my grasp, even now as Robert waits for me beyond these walls and secrets threaten the fragile security around me.
I excel at utilizing desperation.
To an artform.
“Tell me,” Somodorov demands. “Why the hell should I entertain a child who got her say by fucking the head of the table? What could you possibly offer me?”
“It’s simple.” I copy him, observing the painting as well. In a way, it’s a physical manifestation of our conversation. Mindless and static, mainly for show. The outcome is already set in stone: an eternal stalemate. “I can’t offer you anything. Yet. But I think you know better than I do how alliances can change and that power can shift on a whim.”
“Oh?” He laughs deep in his throat. “I don’t have time for this—”
“Let me put it this way.” I raise my voice just enough to stop him in his tracks. “You control mercenaries, correct? Who stands to lose more if the war with the Winthorps is over?”
“I have more important matters than Mischa’s squabbles,” the man scoffs.
“Fair enough. But then who might stand to see you as a threat if Robert is gone entirely? I don’t think Mischa would care, but what about someone who may want to ensure they keep control of Winthorp estate themselves?”
He frowns and I instinctively brace. I’m on a tightrope. One wrong move and the consequences will be swift and brutal.
“Are you even suggesting what I think you are?”
“Of course not.” I innocently incline my head. “But maybe your thoughts go in the same direction as mine? Some men would do anything to maintain their power. But a whore? All she would want is…peace.”
Beyond his shoulder I find Mischa, watching us, his face unreadable.
“Excuse me.” I slip past Somodorov, my heart pounding.
“I see you went for the most dangerous prey out of the gate,” Mischa remarks once I reach him. The gruffness of his voice contrasts the odd tilt to his mouth betraying an emotion he’s trying to resist: admiration. “He must like you. Alexi tends to stab what offends him.” He eyes my throat, finding it unscathed. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” I rasp. “But I’m not sure I want to be a wolf for very long.”
Not because I’m scared.
But because…
Toying the line between caution and power, I enjoyed every second of it.
I enjoyed it way too much.
Chapter 24
We move to the manor’s expansive dining room, where the heavy atmosphere should lessen somewhat. However, when Sergei claims the head of the table, his stern expression reveals that this setting is yet another battlefield.
This line of fighting is a lot simpler, however.
A vote.
“Do we take our chance now?” he wonders, glancing around the table brimming with guests. “Or squander it?”
He looks to Mischa, but for once, the younger man seems reluctant to take the reins of the conversation. He sits sideways on the chair beside mine, his hand on his chin.
“I vote yes,” another man pitches in from Sergei’s end of the table. “I say we put an end to this now.”
“Agreed,” another man says.
“Fine.” Mischa looks up, meeting Sergei’s gaze directly. “I may have the final say, but old Sergei…he would never lead us astray.”
“Then it’s settled. We move out tonight.”
“Tonight?” The question comes from Somodorov. “Launch a full-scale operation on Winthorp with just a few hours’ notice? That seems hasty, Sergei.”
“Or intuitive, he will be returning from his meeting,” the other man corrects. “As Mischa stated, would I suggest a plan I didn’t think would work?”
“I guess,” Somodorov says, “but still. I think we—”
“We should vote,” Mischa says over him. He lifts his hand, displaying the callused palm. “I say yes.”
I bite my lip to disguise my shock. Has he changed his opinion so soon? Around the table, various sounds of agreement or dissent are voiced, but within minutes, a consensus is clear.
“Then it’s settled,” Sergei says. “We strike tonight. A small contingent. My men and Mischa’s—”
“What about mine?” Alexi interjects.
“I think a smaller team is better,” Sergei says. “We can be discreet until it’s time to strike.”
The men on his side of the table grumble in affirmation of that plan.
“Fine.” Mischa stands and heads for the doorway. “We’ll leave at midnight.” Before he exits the room, his eyes cut to mine, brimming with a silent invitation to follow.
When I finally track him down, he’s in the upstairs sitting room with his back to me. From another room, giggles erupt and I marvel at the innocent contrast to the grim discussion that took place below. Mouse and Eli are in their own universe, blissfully unaware of the danger brewing around them.
And I’d give my soul to keep them there.
“I don’t trust it,” Mischa admits as I advance on his position. “And I know you don’t, either.” He reaches out, grasping my hand. “But you can’t show it. Not to him and not now.”
“This doesn’t sound like you.” Cocking my head, I place my hands on my hips. “Mischa Stepanov, biding his time?”
His lips quirk almost too quickly to catch. “Maybe your pretty little words are stuck in my brain,” he counters. “Peace. Fighting Sergei out in the open certainly won’t achieve that. It would split the mafiya right down the fucking middle and start an even bloodier war than the one with Winthorp. If he is a fucking liar, I need him to prove it on his own.”
Even if waiting kills him.
“You’re right.” I brush my hand along his shoulder, feeling the muscle flex at my touch. “There is a lot I don’t know about you.”
And maybe it’s not a bad thing.
“But,” I add, “if you don’t confront him now, then when?”
He looks away, eyeing the world beyond the windows. “When the timing is right.”
“And until
then?”
He rakes his gaze down the length of me, tracing the plunging neckline of the dress. His fingers cinch a handful of silk, and it’s no match, easily giving him enough leverage to lift it over my head.
“Mischa!” I gasp as he tugs me against him, fully naked. “Anyone could come in,” I whisper, painfully aware of the faint giggles betraying a world beyond this room. As his mouth comes to nuzzle my throat, the danger feels farther and farther away. “We can’t—”
His lips capture mine, silencing my protests. Grunting, he spins me around, pressing my body against the window. The thin sill provides just enough stability to support me as he draws back, tugging on the fastenings of his pants.
Seeing him bare in the dim light shouldn’t be enough to make all logic dissipate from my brain. Straining and swollen, he’s breathtaking. My fingers reach for him before I can help it, easing a groan from his lips.
“Be a different animal for now, my wolf,” he murmurs, sinking inside me on a single thrust. “Something quiet,” he grates as his eyes flutter closed. He groans again, his throat cording as he starts to move. “A sheep?”
I’m too breathless to mount a comeback. Each thrust is rough, plunging as deep as he possibly can without hurting me. This isn’t for pleasure.
It’s a promise.
A plea.
A demand.
“Mine,” he grunts against my ear in time with his next punishing thrust. “You’re mine, Rose. Say it.”
“Yours,” I breathe into his sweat-coated skin. My fingers trace the line of his throat, tracking the sharp inhalation he takes. “I’m yours… And you’re mine.”
He grunts in acknowledgment, bucking his hips. The full weight of my ownership strikes me deep, far beyond where he could reach.
“Mine,” I say as he stills inside me.
But if all goes wrong…
For how long?
Darkness has fallen beyond the windows by the time Mischa finally carries me to his room. It’s a miracle we weren’t caught by prying eyes. Or a curse. The longer I have him like this, the more reckless directions my thoughts travel. Lying beside him, I find it easy to imagine a future far different than any I would have envisioned before.
