VII (Seven)

by Lana Sky

  He says nothing, but he doesn’t stop me, either, when I turn toward the bathroom and limp over the threshold. Spotting my reflection in the mirror, I freeze, fixated by the mound of bandages around my left hand. It looks worse than I’ve imagined. A vibrant scarlet taints sections of the white gauze. Within seconds, it’s dripping red, red, red.

  Vanya left some supplies for me. I spot them arranged neatly on the counter, and perhaps it’s delirium from blood loss that makes me sway, rather than gratitude. With my intact hand braced against the counter for leverage, I use my teeth to snag a piece of gauze from the bandage and unravel it layer by layer. There’s no point in being brave. Not here. I moan and gasp at every tendril of burning pain that roils through my arm as more of the injury is exposed.

  Reddened, inflamed flesh. A bloodied, gaping socket.

  Oh God. I turn away, choking back bile as the gravity of what I’ve done sinks in. I’ve never hurt myself before. I never held a knife against my own flesh and contemplated the damage I could do.

  But I remember it all now. Holding the blade, pressing down, tasting salt on the air… It took me three agonizing attempts to cut through the bone on my own. Then I vomited and dropped the knife. So someone else had to sever the last bit of muscle and tendon.

  The same man who snatches my wrist now, preventing me from dripping more blood onto the floor. “Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare pass out—look at me!”

  Too exhausted to turn my head, I settle for watching him in the mirror’s reflection. My blurred vision creates a twin for him, equally as cold as the original. Both hiss in disgust as my head lolls, too heavy to lift.

  “Sit on the counter.” He clears a space with a swipe of his hand, sending medicinal bottles and tools crashing to the floor. “Sit on the fucking counter—come here. No! Hold on to me, damn it!” Grunting, he grips my thigh and lifts me onto the counter’s ledge himself.

  “I…I’m going to faint,” I admit against his shoulder. My head feels hot. I have to suck the air down into my lungs and hold it there before exhaling. In. Out. Slow. Slower.

  Mischa says nothing. He muscles in closer, forcing my legs wider to make space for his bulk. Like a wall, his body pins me against the mirror. To keep me from falling, I realize. At the same time, he douses my hand in searing liquid and reapplies more gauze with much less tact and expertise than Vanya.

  “You won’t die,” he mutters as if annoyed by that fact. “But it shouldn’t keep bleeding with the stitches…” He steps back while I cling to the faucet with my good hand. “Don’t move.” In a ruthless motion, his gaze sweeps over me.

  I copy him and choke on a gasp. So much for the new Ellen; my pretty white dress is ruined, painted red.

  As I stare, Mischa snags the front of my dress in his fists and yanks, ripping the expensive material right down the middle. Before I can protest, he tosses the remains into a nearby trash can.

  “You have five minutes to get changed, then meet me downstairs,” he declares before storming from the room.

  Five minutes. I waste three of them trying to remember how to stand on my own before I give up and crawl back to my stack of clothing. This time, I select a black dress. It’s longer, made of wool, with long sleeves. With less than two minutes to spare, I stagger to the top of the stairs and find Mischa glaring up at me from the bottom of them.

  I take my time, inching down each step, but he never moves to rush me along. Just as my foot hits the ground floor, he snatches my wrist and pulls me through the front door. The moon hangs above, adding a silvery glow to the harsh darkness that obscures most of our surroundings. I faintly make out three of his men lurking beyond the threshold. They follow us into a waiting van.

  In a way that’s beginning to feel routine, Mischa sandwiches me between himself and the door, all but daring me to test the lock on my own. Two of his men take the front and passenger’s seats while the third lingers behind, openly sporting his weapon.

  The driver must already know where to go. He takes off without any input from Mischa and the trip commences in tense, unbearable silence. Only a few hours ago, I would have maintained that silence.

  Now, a question springs from my lips. I blame the drug. “Have you gone back on your threat? Will you kill me now? Or will you whore me—”

  “Oh, but I did kill you,” Mischa says. He doesn’t bother to lower his voice in the presence of his men. His poisonous tone drips into their ears, infecting us all. “I killed the pathetic little bitch you used to be. And as I told you, whoever you are now…you work for me. Or can you not survive without that fucking mask you called Robert Winthorp?”

  “Why?” I’m not talking about the violence or the money. “Why does it even matter what I do? Without Robert, I’m worth nothing to you—”

  “Oh.” He chuckles darkly, eyeing his scarred knuckles. “He wouldn’t try to barter for you if you were worth nothing.”

  My mind goes blank. “R-Robert tried…to barter for me?”

  He didn’t mean to tell me. Irritation flickers across his expression like a ripple in a pond’s otherwise calm surface.

  “What did he offer?” I ask.

  Rather than answer, he turns to gaze out his window. Everything down to his posture warns me to shut up. Back down. But as he said himself, the woman I once was is gone.

  “Money?” I ask. “Land?”

  His mouth grows tighter with every guess. I’m shooting in the dark.

  “Tell me what he offered!”

  “More than a million,” he spits, grating the words through clenched teeth. “And don’t you fucking think for a second that I won’t still slit your goddamn throat—”

  “What?” I jerk back against the stiff cushions of the seat. “You’re lying.”

  Mischa raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”

  My head hurts. I cradle it in my good hand, digging my fingertips into my aching temple. The harder I press, the more confused I feel.

  “Then why not trade me? Or send my body to him?” A million. That amount sends a shiver down my spine. Robert was frivolous with money, but never like that. “Why—”

  “This was never about you. You were always a worthless fucking token that fell onto the game board. And now?” He gives me a cold, soulless appraisal while stroking his chin. “I just want to see how long it takes me to break the little toy I stole.”

  The threat is almost convincing. Almost. But he’s forgotten one thing: I grew up in this world as well and I am well-versed in the language of men and money.

  “That doesn’t make sense—”

  “I suggest you shut your fucking mouth and carefully consider your remaining options,” he warns. “I don’t have much patience for either widows or wives—”

  “Enough! You are not my husband.”

  He blinks. So do I. The grit in my tone shocks even me. “You…you are not Robert,” I add. “I don’t owe you a damn thing. If you want to kill me, kill me. I’ll even do it myself…” I eye my mangled hand, horrified by my own boast. How easy would it be to cut a little lower and a lot deeper? “I’m not your captive anymore. So if you want me to work for you, then you earn my respect. My trust... This toy is not afraid of being broken.”

  I’m panting with the effort it took to get the words out. Stupid. Shutting my eyes, I press my skull back into the headrest. Do I regret what I’ve said? The answer terrifies me more than any rage Mischa could ignite.

  No. I don’t.

  Not even as his breath scalds the tender flesh of my throat.

  “And there she is,” he growls. Is the grudging respect I hear a result of delirium? “The bitch without her mask. Can she back up the bullshit spewing from that pretty mouth?” He presses something against my palm and my brain shies from identifying it. Hard. Leather? “She better be able to.”

  He pulls away, and when I open my eyes, I find my hand wrapped around something thick. Long. Partly metal.

  A knife.

  A thrill runs through me as I tighte
n my grip on the handle. Am I its intended target—and he’s just toying with me—or is the weapon meant to serve a more nefarious purpose?

  Maybe as a reminder: you’ve already sliced away part of yourself...

  Are you willing to sacrifice more?

  You better be.

  Chapter 4

  “Hide it,” Mischa commands, nodding to the blade. “Now.”

  It’s too long to smuggle beneath the dress. Thinking fast, I lean forward and slip it handle-first into one of my new boots. Luckily, the blade is slim enough to avoid slicing into my skin, but the added weight is a chilling burden.

  Sitting upright, I stare out the window and avidly study our surroundings. We’re in the country, just beyond civilization, judging from the power lines that span the distance—but near a Winthorp stronghold if Robert was willing to trade for me. That detail should narrow down the potential areas, but in reality, I could be anywhere. The Winthorps owned property all over the world.

  It was one of the many reasons I could never dream of leaving Robert.

  He would always find me.

  “We’re here,” the driver announces.

  Here is…nowhere. We’re parked on a dirt road that extends beside a thicket of trees. Only the glow from the headlights casts enough illumination to see by. From what I can tell, there isn’t a building in sight.

  In fact, it’s the perfect place to bury a body.

  I jump as Mischa muscles open the door on his end and takes my arm. “Come on.”

  He shoves me forward, toward a narrow expanse of naked field. An ominous shiver racks my spine as paranoid suspicions fester on my unease. Is this how he’ll do it? Shoot me from behind?

  “Hurry up!”

  My hesitant, wooden steps are too slow. He gains on me in no time, drawing even with my shoulder.

  From the corner of my eye, I see him manipulate an object held between his hands. A gun.

  With deft motions, he removes the safety and cocks it. “You’re afraid,” he murmurs when I jump at the sharp noise. “Even better. You may not like to gamble, Little One, but you’ve been playing the wrong game. This is your biggest risk yet. You fuck up and we’re both dead.” His gaze warily sweeps the landscape, searching for anything that might raise alarm.

  “Why trust me?” My nerves hum, awakened by his unease. I flex my fingers impatiently. Should I reach for the knife now? “In fact, isn’t your war over now that Robert is—”

  “Who said anything about trust?” Mischa wonders before I can decide on an answer to my dilemma. “No, this is about survival. Do you want to die as a worthless pawn, Ellen, or do you want to live?” He tucks the gun into the back pocket of his jeans and comes to a stop a few paces ahead of me. “Make your choice now.”

  He lifts his foot and slams the heel over a seemingly random spot in the ground. A spot that moves, breaking away from the rest of the earth to reveal a roughly dug hole. A wooden hatch covered it, blending in with the dirt in the dark. Beneath it, a man peers out, a pistol raised. My heart falters as the barrel drifts in my direction before settling squarely over Mischa.

  “State your business.”

  “I have an appointment,” Mischa retorts without a shred of concern given to the weapon. “Your boss is expecting me, and I’m short on time, so I suggest you take us to him before I give him advice on how to better train his dogs.”

  The vicious taunt goes unchallenged by the man. He merely nods toward the ground. “Leave your weapons here.”

  With a sigh, Mischa withdraws his gun and places it at his feet.

  Unsatisfied, the man in the hatch turns to me. “Weapons.”

  “She’s unarmed,” Mischa says. His smug scoff portrays indignation I doubt even Robert could pull off: As if I’d ever arm a bitch. “She’s my accountant. I already cleared her with your boss. Besides, if she were packing, the men you have lurking in the woods would have alerted you.”

  Mischa cuts his gaze to the swath of trees behind us. Only then do I make out flickering shadows among the underbrush. So we were being watched the entire time. If he knew, then why the blatant show of cocking his own weapon? Looking at him, I can’t tell. His expression reveals nothing.

  Sighing, the man in the hatch lowers himself deeper into the hole. “Come in.”

  Mischa starts forward, and I creep in his wake. Between his feet, a ladder descends into the hole. At the bottom of what appears to be at least a ten-foot drop, a faint glow betrays a larger space below. Turning to face me, Mischa descends the ladder first. When his head disappears below the earth, I follow, using my uninjured hand to feel for each rung.

  “Watch it.” Someone palms my waist when my heel strikes the bottom level: packed earth. Mischa.

  I look at him, blinking as my eyes adjust to the surprisingly bright lights strung along a wire hanging along the top of a short tunnel. A few paces ahead, it opens onto a cavernous space cut right into the belly of the Earth. Wooden stakes reinforce the square structure, and near each corner stands a man hefting a large, semi-automatic weapon, like the ones carried by Mischa’s men.

  Seated on a metal folding chair is a balding man who’s watching us approach, his arms crossed over his ample stomach. Surrounding him are several wooden crates. Only one has its lid removed, revealing the cargo it contains: black weapons packed into straw.

  “Mischa,” the man greets, his voice cold. “I have to admit that this is a surprise. I never thought I’d see the day when the pampered fucking prince would dare come crawling to me for lead. Who did you piss off this time? More Winthorps? Though I heard that the old man is gone. How’s that for fucking irony? Done in by his own—”

  “Anders,” Mischa says over him, his tone equally cutting. “One would think that you weren’t begging to sell your shit to me. Is this it?” He nods curtly toward the open box.

  “It’s pretty pricey for shit,” Anders remarks. He cuts his gaze over to me before returning his attention to the man by my side. His disinterest makes one thing certain, and my sigh nearly barrels me over: I’m not one of the items for sale. “But you need the guns, or you wouldn’t come to me. And,” he adds with a hollow laugh. “You must have pissed off Sergei, or you would get your goods from him. Unless…” He rubs his dirt-covered fingers along his chin. “Unless you’re trying to hide what you need the guns for. Ah, but concealing something from one of the ten heads. That would be against your fucking rules, wouldn’t it?”

  “Enough.” Mischa’s voice rings out through the room, ripe with authority. “The girl has the money. Name your price, and I’ll take what you have now.”

  “My price?” Anders laughs darkly. “My price, Mischa, is way more than what you could offer for a few fucking guns.”

  “Oh?”

  I taste the danger in Mischa’s tone, even before his body jars mine, conveying a silent command. Get ready.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Your head,” Anders says simply. The foreboding click of five guns cocking in unison bolsters the words. “It seems that the Winthorps have put a mighty big bounty on your head. From what I can tell, two have become one, and the remaining piece of shit wants you very, very badly, Prince.”

  Robert Sr.? It’s almost funny how only now does it sink in, just what Robert’s death means. His father will be on the warpath, and he will most certainly not want to rescue me. Mischa’s lost his bargaining chip. Any benefit he might have gained from keeping me alive is surely good and gone now. So maybe he means it. A madman’s curiosity is the only reason why I’m still breathing.

  “So place your bets, Little Rose…”

  My toes flex in my boots, dislodging the blade and coaxing it closer to the rim.

  “Is that so?” Mischa says with a casual shrug. “By attacking me directly, I suppose you know what this means? You’ve just forsaken the protection of the mafiya.”

  “Now, tell me: What the hell do I need protection from a dead man for?” Anders chuckles, rising from his chair. Slowly, h
e fishes a pistol from the waistband of his pants, but he doesn’t bother to aim it. “All bets are off now. You wanted a war, Prince? You just bought yourself one—”

  “You’re right,” Mischa says. “I have.”

  Boom!

  Gunshots ring out as the world lurches, plunging everything into chaos. Dust flies. Darkness. Light. I’m choking on the thickened air, feeling for anything solid to cling to. I find it in the form of a muscular arm that flexes in recognition.

  “Move!”

  A chorus of pained groans almost drowns out the shout. More gunshots echo, but they sound too far away. Up above?

  “Go!”

  A hand rams against my back, shoving me forward. Up. Out.

  Fresh air trickles into my lungs as someone manually hauls me out of the shaft and onto the field. Mischa. There’s no time to get my bearings as he lunges forward, tugging me by my arm. I just run, giving in to his guidance. Eventually, we reach the trees where shouts echo, too chaotic to make sense of. Dirt and brambles nip at the bared skin of my legs and dislodge my boots. I’m clinging to Mischa more than I’d like—clinging, rather than letting him drag me along.

  Suddenly, he comes to a stop, pushing me against a harsh surface. My heart stammers as my senses fight to identify it. Dry. Cold. Bark. A tree?

  “Climb,” he hisses.

  I twist around to witness him peel his shirt off and tear it down the middle.

  Cold, his gaze slices through mine. “Fucking climb!”

  I reach for a low-hanging branch and attempt to use it for leverage to get off the ground. With only one functional hand, it’s a pathetic attempt.

  Behind me, Mischa scoffs. “Stay still.” He seizes my waist and lifts, all but throwing me onto a narrow fork between two splayed branches.

  Bark scrapes my palms as I scramble for purchase. “I’m slipping,” I croak to him, fighting to keep my voice down. “I’m—”

  “Don’t panic,” he warns from down below. “Wait for me.”

  With uncanny dexterity, he vaults into the space beside me and tugs my arm, righting my balance. His shoulders ripple as he manipulates the remains of his shirt. Twisting the fabric like a makeshift rope, he secures it around a higher branch and draws both ends taut. It holds just enough to help him climb to a higher ledge, and then another. He reaches down for me each way.