by Lana Sky
“And now he’s dead.” Spit flies from my lips, laced with vitriol. “So you can stop comparing yourself to him. Robert—”
“No.” Anger resonates in his voice like a slap. “Have you forgotten so soon? Take a good look.”
He sheds his gray shirt, tossing it into a ball on the floor. His arms flex in its absence, displaying every muscle rippling with tension. “I told you that you are only allowed to utter one man’s name. Shall I teach you how to say it?”
The coldness in his gaze is such a stark contrast to the beautiful collage of scars and tattoos unfolding across his ribcage. My breath catches as my nerves spark, aware of his nearness.
“Mischa Mikhailovich Stepanov.” He takes another deliberate step as I watch. Then another. When he’s close enough, he cradles my chin against his fingertips, grazing my skin with the tips of his nails. “Now…I want to hear how it sounds when you scream it.”
He shoves me back and works on the waistband of his pants with slow, deliberate motions. Anticipation ricochets through my veins, rendering me paralyzed as my heart picks up speed.
“I-I…I’m not your captive anymore,” I gasp out. Though am I speaking to him? Or myself? “I—”
“I don’t really give a damn what you are,” Mischa says. He sinks to his knees over the end of the mattress, grasping my thighs in each hand. Then he waits as if he’s expecting me to run. When I don’t, he parts them slowly, watching my face with every inch of space revealed. “All I want is what I’m owed.”
“Get off of me—”
Stealing my breath, his fingers slip beneath my dress and find me quivering—even as I try to bat his hand away. I’m slick. Ready. It’s impossible to hide the truth from his touch. With him inside me, there is no escape.
“I knew it.” His eyes flash as he swipes his thumb along my entrance and my body quakes in response. It’s like each nerve short-circuits, rewired by every brutal caress. “This is how a woman speaks to the man she needs. You can’t lie to me like this. You can’t pretend…so don’t. You’ve never ached like this for him.”
I gasp out, squeezing my eyes shut against his heated expression: clenched jaw, heavy-lidded eyes. My inner muscles spasm, grasping greedily at his fingers. He’s right. We speak our own language, and he’s drowning me in nonsense.
“So, what will it be, Little One?” he wonders as he rocks his erection against my entrance, teasing me with the unbearable fullness. “Hard or slow?”
I writhe against the bed. Avoiding him…drawn to him. A pathetic whimper bubbles in my throat.
“Both?” Mischa murmurs into my ear. “As you wish. But first…” His fingers sink into my hair again, tugging. “I demand my payment in full.”
He gives me no warning before he stretches me open with one thrust, pushing the air from my lungs and every thought from my head. My hips arch, driving him deeper even as I turn my face into the sheets, desperate to shut him out.
But he won’t be erased so easily. His teeth nip at my earlobe, insistent and unforgiving. “Look at me. Fuck—look at me.”
I open my eyes and cry out at the monster I find staring back. His eyes are aglow with unholy fire, his lips drawn back to bare his teeth. He grunts as he fucks me. Takes me. Breaks me.
There are no rules. Just chaos and the violent tempest that drives him in and out. Harder. Deeper. Too much.
“Give it to me, Little One,” he demands, clawing at my hips for enough leverage to change the angle of his thrusts. It’s like his aim is to bore through me. Into my soul. Into my head. “Give it to me.”
My lips flutter and then fly apart as broken noise tears from my throat. “M-Mischa.”
My cheeks heat with shame. I’ve lost this game. Or have I?
The sound of his name makes him rear up on his knees, his head thrown back, a groan building in his throat. Like a growl. Like thunder. Hungrily, his fingers bite into my flesh, claiming, grasping. “Say it again.”
It’s not the triumphant command of a conquer. It’s…a plea?
“Shit… Say it again.” Corded muscles strain against his flesh, distorting his outline. He’s more beast than man, howling for release. “Fuck, say it—”
“Mischa.”
His name holds its own power. Too fucking much for my head to contain. He bucks at the sound of it, hunching forward to sink his teeth into my shoulder so hard that I see white.
My lips part, but rather than a cry, something else slips from them, broken and bleating. “Mischa…”
The word ends on a moan as he flips me over, pressing my face into the sheets. With my body prone, he enters me from behind. His hips slam into me, and I take him as deep as I can—then even further than that. I taste him. I’m consumed by him. He beats his ownership into my battered flesh and rakes his name into my skin with his teeth.
I lose track of how long it lasts. How brutal he becomes. Bruising. Punishing.
Thoughtless.
Reckless.
Boneless.
I’m a mass of exposed nerves when he finally groans into my ear, flooding me with his release, but he never moves. I’m crushed beneath his weight, too exhausted to resist the unbearable pressure. A part of me considers lying there, letting his bulk drive every ounce of air from my lungs until there’s nothing left. I could die like this.
“Hey.” As he finally rolls onto his side, stars dance across my vision. “Look at me.”
He’s frowning when I do. With one hand, he reaches out to flick the sweat-soaked hair from my face. Whatever he finds makes him scoff in disgust.
“Still there,” he declares, rolling onto his back. “Tell me, Little Rose. What would it take to drive him out of your skull for good?”
Robert? It’s a comical question, though he doesn’t seem to see it that way. His voice is gruff. Stern. Serious.
“Twenty-three years,” I reply, alarmed by how dead I sound. How tired.
“What a shame,” Mischa muses. “I don’t have that kind of time.” He shifts, turning his back to me.
I wait, but he doesn’t stand yet. His heat prickles my skin, a foreign sensation. Robert never extended his presence beyond this point. Only now can I entertain the small possibility that it might have been some shred of mercy on his part.
After all, he never wanted to ruin me, break me, destroy me…
He just wanted to own me. I still wear his shackles, and I’m at a loss as to how to find the key—or if one even exists. What would it take to drive him out of my skull for good?
“He kept me blind.”
Mischa stiffens at the sound of my voice, but I’m more shocked than he should be. I’m not used to speaking like this. Freely. Unease mingles with the breathless aftermath of the sex, churning my thoughts into a senseless mass that makes it hard to discern what’s smart and what is…not.
“He never told me anything,” I add. “And he used my ignorance as a cage.”
There’s so much I don’t know about the Winthorps, or my mother, or the Mafiya. So much I’m not sure I ever want to learn.
“If you want to erase him, then…” The words linger on the tip of my tongue, too stupid to utter out loud. Too reckless. I’m tempted to swallow them down.
But no. I’ve already piqued the monster’s interest. One taste of my bleeding soul and he wants more.
“What?” He’s harsh, impatient. Curious?
I raise my gaze, hunting for his body through the dark. He’s faced me again without my realizing it, meeting my probing stare with a brutal scowl of his own.
“Name your price, Little Rose.”
Perhaps he’s not far off. Maybe my cage never required a key. Just a price some mercenary would pay to buy his way in.
“Open my eyes,” I say simply. “Let me learn this world for myself and tell me everything. Everything he never did.”
Chapter 7
I don’t dream…
But I know I’m in one before the cruel curtain is ripped away. I’m too happy. Too content. The warm
body in my arms conforms to mine like no one ever has. So perfect…
I blink to make the scene clearer—to see his face just one last time.
I call for him…
But then reality returns and I wake up to a cruel world that looks the same as it always has: distorted snippets seen through the bars of the cage. It seems my current captor needs more convincing to release his pet bird from her prison. He wants me to ask him twice.
He wants me to beg.
One wouldn’t know just from looking at him, however. He’s still sprawled on his side of the bed, facing away from me as light streaks his back. But it’s surprisingly easy to sense which directions his thoughts take in this moment.
Wherever a sane man’s mind would venture, his travels the opposite path. Almost as if he likes to spite that tiny bit of humanity inside himself that only Vanya seems to think still exists.
“Little Rose…” He inhales deeply, as if sensing my attention, causing the muscles along his spine to ripple. “Did I say you could move?” He sounds half asleep.
But I’m not fooled. This creature, man or monster he may be, doesn’t sleep. He watches me during the night. He studies me.
He still is.
Aware of his scrutiny, I lie back down, staring up at the ceiling. Whatever drug Vanya gave me all those hours ago has finally worn off.
It. Hurts.
Everything.
My hand is just another agony adding to the symphony of it blaring beneath my skin. My head aches. Back aches. My soul…
It’s the most battered by Mischa’s violent whims. He manhandles it even now as he makes me listen to every lazy breath he takes while I wait for his command to rise.
Seconds pass. Minutes. My reprieve never comes.
“You don’t like being touched.” He makes that claim while a shadow creeps toward my side of the bed, cast by his hand. A heartbeat later, he boldly strokes my hip. “Oh, I don’t mean in this way.”
As I shudder beneath his touch, his breath bastes the base of my throat, igniting sweat gathering there. In an instant, I’m ablaze.
“You don’t mind the fucking. You tolerate it. It’s the nearness you don’t like. Contact.” His hand stills as he comes to a sudden realization. “He never slept in your bed.”
I say nothing, distracted by the sensation of his callused palm. Too heavy. Too warm. Too real.
“I will not show you the same mercy, Little Rose.”
He tugs on my hip, yanking my body onto his torso. I’m now facing him directly, our bare flesh meeting with a wet slap. His eyes are heavy-lidded but stern, contradicting the slow, lazy smile shaping his lips.
“You will breathe me.” His coarse tone transforms the words into the most dangerous threat: a shackle of promises. “There will be no escape. No reprieve. Whether you are awake, or asleep, or in my bed, you will never know any reality that doesn’t include me.”
His promise festers like poison in my stomach, eating through what little resolve I have left. I survived Robert, a badge I wear with pride. And yet…
Mischa is a whole new creature. One who’s adapted to hone every weapon my husband never bothered to use. As if to feed that fear, his hands caress my shoulders, raising goosebumps with every bit of flesh they claim.
“Don’t look so alarmed, Little Rose.” He brushes his mouth against my cheek. “I think I’ve changed my mind. I will do this slowly. I might have twenty-three years to break you after all. In the meantime…”
He shoves me off and rolls effortlessly into a sitting position. With his back to me, the scars there stand out in stark contrast, catching the light.
“You want to be enlightened?” He stands and fishes his clothing from the floor. Once dressed, he looks at me from over his shoulder. “Then come and open your fucking eyes.”
I rise obediently and stagger toward my pile of clothing. At first, I intend to grab whatever I can reach. He beats me to them, kicking a bag over so that its contents spill out for his inspection. One by one, he nudges the expensive fabrics with his bare toes.
“The black,” he grunts finally. “Wear that.”
I eye his selection and bite my lip: a thin dress with spaghetti straps.
“Why?”
“Why?” The smirk he’s wearing alarms me more than his raw anger. “You’re not with him anymore. So don’t fucking dress like it.”
“What do you mean?” Exasperation taints my tone. So many rules. Don’t do this. Don’t think that. Don’t wear those.
My entire being must remind him of Robert. But how much of my identity is my husband and how much is just me? I’m terrified to realize that I don’t know the answer.
“Why can’t I wear this?” I point to a shirt in a delicate shade of pink.
He scoffs and snatches the garment from the floor. Then he rips it in half and tosses the torn pieces at my feet. “Because you aren’t a fucking Winthorp doll in their pretty glass house.”
He moves quickly, drawing a gasp from my lips before I even process why: He gripped my chin with one massive hand, tilting it roughly so that he can view me from a different angle. I’m not sure what he sees from his vantage point. Fear? Submission?
Or a challenge?
“Unfold your arms.”
Alarm jolts through me, locking the limbs to my sides. “W-why?”
“Your arms.” He snatches my wrists himself and wrenches them apart. His eyes rake over my exposed torso without mercy, but I don’t miss how his tongue flicks along his lower lip with every inch gained. “I want you to think,” he demands. “You listen to your body. Tell me how it wants to be dressed—not with fucking pink. Not like Briar. Like…” Chuckling low in his throat, he leans in closer, and I assume he’s relishing the involuntary swallow racking my throat. “You. How does little Rose want to be dressed?”
“Not like your doll.” My fingers shake slightly as I test his grip, and I’m surprised when he lets me go. Slipping past him, I snatch another shirt from my pile on the floor. It’s a light shade of blue.
Mischa says nothing as I pull it on and then shimmy into a pair of jeans. When I gather the nerve to face him, he’s already near the door.
“Come.” He jerks his chin and enters the hall. Daylight streams in from a nearby row of windows, ghosting over the ornate wall fixtures and painting a stark contrast to my barren room. Enlighten me, he said?
Perhaps he’ll start with this.
“Do you own this place?”
Another raspy laugh rumbles from his chest—but this time, it lacks any humor. He sounds more guarded than anything. When we reach the staircase without him responding, I assume he won’t play this game after all.
“Tell me,” he says as he descends the first few steps, proving me wrong. “If I did, would that impress you?”
His back is to me, meaning he can’t see how my mouth twists in genuine contemplation. Would it? The answer comes quickly. No. Robert possessed wealth in spades. Yet, underneath, he was a simple man who craved simple, base things.
“Of course not,” Mischa assumes, answering for me. “You grew up in fucking Winthorp Manor. I’m sure your husband bathed you in diamonds.”
Ironically, he’s not far off. Though none of Robert’s many gifts were truly mine. I had nice dresses that he kept locked in a closet, allowed to be worn only at his discretion. I had trinkets and baubles that were his taste, not mine. Even my own servants deferred to him always.
“You don’t give a fuck if I own this,” Mischa declares, gesturing to our surroundings with a wave of his hand. We’ve reached the lower level, and he leads me past the main entrance and down a hallway. “A better question is how. Go on. Ask it. I know you want to.”
“Robert made his money through investments,” I say, parroting a term I’ve heard flung around my entire life to explain away the wealth of the Winthorps. Investments. With money. Into something. The details were never explained.
“You know that’s a fucking lie.” Mischa doesn’t waste putting
any effort into the assertion. “The Winthorps trade in flesh, Little One. Women. Girls. They hide their business well, using a shipping company as a front, but it is slavery nonetheless.”
“Y-you’re lying,” I rasp automatically. Robert was a lot of things, but a sex trafficker?
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Mischa shoots me a glance over his shoulder. For once, his smug grin is absent. “I’m sure you’ve suspected as much. What other ‘investment’ could amass a man enough money to buy the whole fucking world?”
“Maybe I was that naïve,” I croak. So many things take on a darker connotation now. The foreign maids who staffed the manor. The secrecy around Robert’s accounts. My heart pangs as I consider the unthinkable: Could I have played a role in it all unknowingly?
“So you didn’t know.” He sounds doubtful, even as the words leave his mouth.
“And you?” I wonder, eyeing his back. I’ve seen the scars that mark his body, but what horrors might lurk on his soul? “Do you trade in ‘flesh’ as well?”
The way he stiffens makes me second-guess that suspicion. His shoulders tense, almost as if he doesn’t even recognize his own disgust.
“My family has always been less complex than your elegant Winthorps,” he calls from paces ahead, continuing to walk without me. “We trade in simpler things: drugs, and guns, and money.”
I force myself to keep moving, chasing him down a narrow corridor and into the dining room. When he takes a seat at the head of the grand table, I maintain the distance between us, staying near the wall.
“No slaves?” I don’t mean to sound mocking.
“Oh, don’t tell me, Little Rose.” Mischa cocks an eyebrow. “You’re still not impressed. Maybe I’ve pegged you wrong? You more than knew of his business. Maybe you got off on the thrill of it? Being the one woman he chose to keep?”
“The one?” I echo, my brow furrowing. “What makes you think I was his only woman?”
I expect him to sneer at the statement. Not frown.
“You were,” he insists. “He may have fucked his whores on the side. I don’t doubt that. But you were the one. The one he claimed. The one he needed.”
