by Lana Sky
“Well, he requested a meeting. Tonight.”
Mischa frowns, his brow furrowed. “A meeting? With who?”
“You,” the man replies. “And…” His gaze cuts nervously in my direction. “Her. He mentioned her by name.”
“Did he now?” Mischa’s eyes narrow into slits. “Tell him I’ll accept, but on my terms. Go.”
The man leaves, taking most of the air in the room with him.
Without even looking in his direction, I can sense the vicious verbal tirade brewing under Mischa’s skin. The hate. The jealousy. I could wait and brace for the tempest.
Or I can sigh and head him off with a dare of my own. “You said you wanted my trust?”
He says nothing. Because he’s brooding, I find when I look up. A wild mop of golden hair obscures his eyes as if he raked his fingers through it.
“Take me to the meeting,” I propose. “Let me talk to Sergei on my own, and then you tell me why I shouldn’t trust him. Let me decide on my own who to believe.”
“And why should I?” There’s no coldness in his tone, for once.
“You told me I should stop acting like a doll,” I remind him. “So don’t treat me like one. I can think for myself—”
“Fine.” He rises to his full height and moves to the door. Wrenching it open, he addresses me without looking back. “I’ll let you gamble, Little Rose. Let’s see just what you’re willing to bet.”
He’s gone in seconds, and alone, I listen to the thud of his retreating footsteps. My heart races, tracking the time with every frantic beat. What the hell was I thinking?
The answer is simple. Nothing. For once, I wasn’t thinking—I was surviving the only way that seems possible where Mischa is concerned. Pure, volatile instinct.
Chapter 18
He finds me in my room when night falls. Dangling from one of his hands is a black dress, which he has to help me into. Then, still without word, he seizes my chair from behind and wheels me into the hall.
We don’t take the ramp. He brings me to the top of the staircase instead and then lifts me from the chair entirely. Startled, I cling to him as he brusquely carries me down the stairs and through a corridor I recognize as the one leading to the large meeting room he held his last gathering in.
This time, a table has replaced the circular arrangement of chairs, and only one man is seated.
Sergei’s aged at least ten years since I saw him last. More gray streaks his hair, and lines surround his mouth, etched into the skin. When he sees me, he stands abruptly, his expression constricted. “I heard about the…incident with Nikolaus,” he states as Mischa approaches. His side of the table contains two chairs, one of which Mischa shoves me onto.
But he doesn’t rush to claim the one beside me. Instead, he extends his hand, his gaze guarded. “Sergei.”
“Mischa.” The other man clasps his hand in return, shaking it. “I thought it was about time we talked.”
“So talk,” Misha commands. He’s being rude.
I’m not well versed in their hierarchy, but I can suspect from Sergei’s raised eyebrow that he’s caught off guard. Still, he disguises his alarm well.
“I want you to reconsider your options,” he says. “By now, you know what the boy is capable of. He’ll retaliate. The girl will be safer with me.”
“So this is what this is about…” Mischa laughs, shaking his head. Then his hand moves so fast that I almost miss it. In a flash, he yanks a knife from his pocket and has the blade against my throat.
“Stop!” Sergei nearly lunges across the table as the metal grazes my skin. “What are you doing?”
“Something I should have done a long time ago,” Misha replies. He presses the knife harder, drawing a gasp from my throat. It’s not for show. Sharp, pinching pain alludes to the fact that he’s already sliced through skin. “What is she to you? Enough fucking games. Just come out and say it.”
“Let her go.” Sergei’s eyes move from my captor to me, flashing with uncertainty. “Mischa—”
“Fucking say it!” The knife withdraws as he slams the blade onto the table so hard that the legs shudder. “Now. So she can hear you. Is she yours? Is that it?” When the other man doesn’t answer, he points the knife at me again. “I fucking swear to god—”
“Remember who you are talking to.”
I jump at the authority ringing in Sergei’s tone. He’s transformed in an instant, and now, I see that Mischa was right to be wary of him. “You show me respect, boy.”
“And you show respect to me!” As Mischa grabs me from behind, his hand forming a collar around my throat, a gasp rips from me. “Tell me who the fuck she is. Tell me now.”
Sergei’s gaze flickers beyond us to the doorway. “Mischa…”
“I said tell me! Is she your fucking bastard—”
“I think she’s Ivan’s bastard!”
Silence descends so abruptly that every breath I take echoes tenfold, deafeningly loud. Mischa’s gone from my side, standing paces away. “How?” he demands.
“How else?” Sergei shrugs. “Her mother was Marnie Winthorp, wasn’t she?” When he doesn’t receive an answer, he nods anyway. “She was. Ivan may seem grizzled now, but don’t be fooled. He’s younger than I am, always too damn soft for his own good. And to be honest…” He trails off, eyeing his hands. “I thought I’d erased any threat that woman could pose to him years ago. In fact, I’m surprised my brother hasn’t already deduced her identity for himself—”
“He hasn’t because she’s not,” Mischa snarls. I turn to face him, standing paces away, his eyes fiery. “Her mother was a fucking Winthorp whore. She’s no more Vasilev than the dirt on the bottom of my fucking shoe.”
“And if you were lying to me, you know that that alone would give me enough of a claim to challenge you.” Though he and Mischa are the same height, Sergei suddenly seems larger, exuding a confidence he lacked before. “Because if she is of my blood, you know what that means.”
“Do I?” Mischa counters.
“It means my bloodline would have life in it, Mischa,” he replies, his tone deadly soft. “It means I’d have an heir to my name. And it means that perhaps I wouldn’t be so content to sit back and watch the next time your carelessness puts my people in danger.”
He eyes me pointedly, as if demanding I come clean now. Admit it.
“Do not get me wrong,” the man adds, returning his attention to Mischa. “I do not want to challenge you. But if I feel that you may have insulted and battered my family? If I feel that my bloodline is in play once more? If I sense that you are more of a threat than a true leader…” He lets the unspoken threat hang in the air. “For now, continue your war with Winthorp if you have to. You still have my support. But think carefully about where you lead from here. And let me know if she happens to remember anything that may clear up her paternity.”
He leaves, carrying himself with that dangerously subtle aura.
And Mischa waits, reminding me of a child ensuring that the adults are out of earshot before resuming his bullying of those weaker. “Don’t tell me you believe him? He’s a feeble-minded old fool—”
“You knew.” My voice clashes with his, a weak whisper against a shout. Surprisingly, mine wins out. “All this time…and you knew.”
His face blurs as my eyes well over and tears spill down with no hope of suppressing them. Everything he said flashes through my mind. His jealousy. His paranoia.
And Vanya…
His kindness. His gentleness. Did he know? The answer sits like a stone in the pit of my stomach. No. He didn’t.
“Did you get a sick kick out of it?” I snarl, surprised when he flinches. “Watching him care for me? Holding my life over his head? Did you love teasing me about my mother when all along you knew!”
“And that is why,” Mischa says softly. “Why you shouldn’t believe everything you fucking hear. Don’t entertain your childish little fantasies because the reality isn’t what you want it to be—trust me on that.”
“Vanya treats you kindly now, but that’s because you’re a nameless victim. An innocent. But if he knew the truth? Not only would he hate you, but the pity. The disgust. Bitch at me all you want, but trust that I know what it is like to be shunned by your own father. It’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?” I croak. “You don’t give a damn about me. If I’m his niece, Sergei has a reason to want his throne back, doesn’t he?”
His jaw clenches over an answer, but he doesn’t have to say a damn thing out loud.
“You’re a selfish bastard. God, I hate you—no, I pity you. Now I see why Vanya sticks around. It’s not because he knows you can change—he doesn’t. He’s just waiting for the moment he’ll have to put you down like the mad dog you are!”
I blush at my own vitriol. I’ve never spoken like this to anyone. Not Robert. Not Briar. In a sick, twisted way, it feels so damn good. At the same time…
Mischa’s face reveals nothing but a careful, blank mask—and I’d prefer any other reaction.
Without a word, he turns, leaving the room, his posture relaxed.
But hatred is like a boomerang. I feel the aftereffects strike me long after he’s gone, lancing across my chest in an unexpected manifestation.
Guilt.
Chapter 19
I don’t return to my room. Instead, I crawl into a corner and sleep in a chair, tucked away in some distant corner of the house. Maybe I do it out of spite, shunning what few items of comfort he’s provided.
Maybe it’s shame.
In some ways, it helped to believe that my father was some faceless, nameless monster. Even when I thought he was Sergei. Those possibilities were men I didn’t know, whose kindness and mercy I couldn’t recall. Had my parentage been more sinister, it would hurt but I could handle it.
I can’t handle this.
The lies, and the intrigue, and the secrets. Vanya wasn’t always the man he is now, Mischa warned me once. If Sergei really is right, could I reconcile that horrible monster with the man who treated me with more kindness than a majority of the people in my life?
And Mischa…
I hate him. At the same time, I know it’s pointless too. You can’t blame a dog for biting and howling when it’s all he knows. You can’t expect a monster to feel an ounce of goddamn mercy.
So I don’t. Gritting my teeth, I focus on the only person I have control over in the situation. The only fool I can blame. Myself.
Alone in the silence of a forgotten hall, I contemplate every fucking mistake I’ve made up until this point—trusting Mischa even for a second is one of them. My fingers absently trace the fresh scratch he left over my throat. Did he goad Sergei intentionally?
Or did he mean in every word of his threat to kill me?
I should believe so. I should fester over it—another reason to hate him. Loathe him. Despise him. He’s a childish bastard with no fucking soul, but that’s the catch.
Children are never malicious without reason. They’re defensive, like Briar all the many times she made me submit to her. At his core, Mischa is an insecure, immature bastard. But there’s a reason behind his madness, and I can’t shake the sinking suspicion that he lied to me, and to Vanya, for a reason.
What exactly that may be?
I don’t care.
I can’t.
If I stay hidden, I can almost pretend I’m back at Winthorp Manor, a realm I know well. Robert would give me a day or so of peace, just long enough to recharge my soul and lick my wounds. He’d never have to hunt for me because I’d instinctively know when to return to my cage and wait for him. I was a well-trained bird.
I’d never listen to heavy, thudding footsteps I knew to be his pacing the hallway nearby. My new captor never calls for me out loud. He can smell that I’m close. Sense that I’m near.
Overall, he has too much damn pride to surrender.
So we play our silent game for hours. His footsteps retreat. Return. Retreat again. I think it’s hours before a door finally opens, revealing the creature standing behind it. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, his hair a stark contrast over his pale skin. Shrouded by a wild fringe, his eyes glow—intense, but not angry. Beside him is the wheelchair.
For what feels like an eternity, we eye each other until he finally moves, turning his back to me. His hand shoots out, shoving the wheelchair further into the room. “The doctor is here,” he growls, his voice hoarse.
I watch him go. Only long after his final steps trail off do I move. Mischa isn’t waiting for me in the hallway or by the main stairs. Alone, I find the ramp and maneuver myself to the second floor. Inside the white room, I find a strange man wearing a white coat.
An hour later, my cast is in pieces and the doctor props a pair of crutches against the bed.
“Practice bearing weight gradually,” he warns. “I’m going to recommend that Mischa allow a physical therapist to come.”
With that, he leaves, and I attempt to stand only to cling to the bed frame with white-knuckled hands. The crutches are harder to maneuver with than the wheelchair and I can only move a few feet at a time. Sweat dribbles down my neck by the time someone enters the room to witness my struggle.
“Careful!” Vanya races to set down a tray of food. His arm goes around my shoulders, providing enough stability to keep me from pitching over. Then he steers me to the bed, murmuring the whole time. “Do you want to fall and break another bone?”
It’s too much. His voice, the soft, gentle cadence. His touch. My head is spinning and I clutch it beneath my fingers as if stroking my temples can unravel the tangled thoughts. “I’m fine. Just please… I-I need to be alone.”
“Are you all right?” His fingers still over my shoulder, but I don’t look up to see his reaction.
“I…I’m just tired,” I force myself to reply. “I just need sleep.”
“Get some rest. I’ll leave the food here for you.” He pats me gently and then leaves, and the dam of emotion I didn’t even know I was holding back breaks loose.
I manage to smother the first sobs beneath my palm. Eventually, that isn’t enough. A handful of bedsheets. A pillow. Only by biting down over my palm can I stay silent in the end.
My eyes stream as my body heaves. There’s no comparison for this pain. I just have to suffer through it, experiencing every emotion I’ve ever felt tenfold. Agony. Guilt. Relief. Gratitude.
It doesn’t last long. The second I hear someone approach, I choke my sobs down and fight to compose myself. Not Mischa. I’m aware that my newcomer isn’t him even before I face them from over my shoulder. This figure is smaller. Thinner. Her blond hair is a wild, matted tangle, clashing with the blue, feminine dress someone gave her to wear.
She eyes me from partially behind the doorway.
“Can I help you?” I rasp when she doesn’t move.
She shakes her head. Then she points to the tray near my bed and mimes eating with her hands.
“Mischa,” I snarl. Once again, the bastard proves that he isn’t above sending a child to do his dirty work.
“I’m not hungry,” I reply politely, hoping my irritation doesn’t seep into my voice. “I’ll eat later…”
I trail off as she pads closer and lifts a bowl from the tray. Holding it out to me, she nods to the broth within. Apparently, I have no choice.
It’s a thin, simple soup but still delicious. I drain it quickly under the girl’s watchful eye. Satisfied, she starts to leave the moment I swallow the last drop.
“Wait,” I call out, and she pauses near the doorway, impatiently fidgeting with the skirt of her dress. “What’s your name?”
Her wide eyes meet mine and she shrugs.
“You can’t talk?”
She shrugs again and then scurri
es away before I can ask her something else. This time, however, I follow her. It takes me ages using the crutches—or so it feels like. By the time I enter the hallway, I only have the sound of her quick steps rounding the corner to guide me. It isn’t long before I can get a sense of where she’s headed. Sure enough, not far from Mischa’s office, his voice greets me.
“Did you do it?” he demands gruffly. “She ate all of it?”
The girl must nod or whisper something to him, because he grunts, satisfied.
“Fine. Here’s your share.”
I come close enough to make out the smaller shape of the girl standing before the desk. Mischa must place something onto her hand, because she draws it back, observing the contents intently. Then she extends the same hand toward him again.
“Good,” the man praises, slapping something else onto her palm. More money, I suspect. “Never trust anyone not to cheat you. Always count your shit. You catch on quick—” Suddenly, he cocks his head and a frown distorts his mouth. “But next time, I will teach you how to ensure that you aren’t followed.”
The girl whirls around, spotting me.
“Go,” Mischa tells her.
She whizzes past me, and I attempt to follow her.
“Wait.”
I don’t want to. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to keep moving. Ignore him. Resist. I manipulate one of the crutches forward and take a step.
“I said to fucking wait.”
Old Ellen Winthorp would have obeyed the twisted baritone. She would have cowered and let him inside her head again. New Ellen, however, is too fucking tired. I keep inching along as my neck prickles with awareness of the man glaring after me.
He doesn’t follow me though. I reach my room alone and collapse, panting, onto the bed. Here, I curl up and try once again to process everything swirling around my head without going insane. When I hear the soft steps of someone approaching, I don’t try to be polite.
“I’m sorry, Vanya, but I’m not hungry—”
“Look at me.”
I guessed wrong. My body stiffens at the sound of Mischa’s voice.
