by Lana Sky
The stress he puts on inside…
My cheeks flame and I step back, wrenching out of his reach. “So you think the key to ‘knowing’ Robert is sleeping with me?”
“No.” He frowns as if insulted and advances a step, heedless of how it blocks me in—though maybe that’s his real motive in the end. His fingers return to my hair, parting the strands and testing the weight of a lock against his palm.
My chest tightens as I watch him. I half expect him to smell it, some primal action that would make more sense than what he actually does. He twists the stringy locks. Pets them.
“You are the key to that motherfucker,” he declares after a moment. “Inside you. That’s how I’ll destroy him.”
“You’re insane.” I croak, attempting to turn away.
“No.” He tugs on my hair, forcing me to face him again. “I’m impatient, Little Rose. As I said before, give me what I want and I’ll let you have a little taste of the one thing you’ve convinced yourself all along that you didn’t crave.”
“And what is that?”
His teeth flash. “Power.”
“Really?” A mocking laugh sticks in my throat. “You crave power.”
“Bullshit,” Mischa counters. “You want it, all right. You just don’t know how to fucking reach out and take it. But I can show you—”
“Oh?” I fail at bravado; my voice is a dry rasp. “And how will you do that?”
He smirks, and this time, the expression unnerves me even more. “I’ll put some right in the palm of your greedy, fucking hands.”
He eyes the hands in question, still grinning. Then, all at once, his mouth falls flat as footsteps approach and the door opens from the other side.
“Mischa,” Vanya calls, his expression wary. “You were right. Winthorp has his men staked out for at least ten miles in either direction. He’s blocking us in.”
“Good.” Mischa shrugs and passes him to enter the adjoining room, where a tiny body lies bundled on the couch.
The girl. I don’t think I breathe until I notice her chest rise and fall with labored breaths. She’s alive.
“He’s planning another attack—but he’ll try to isolate her first. So let him think he’s won,” Mischa suggests to Vanya. “In fact…” He turns to me, a mocking half smile on his lips. “I’ll even let him get a taste of his prize.”
“How?” Vanya wonders.
“Wait ten minutes and then lead the men west,” Mischa says. Then he grabs my arm and drags me through a door that opens onto a narrow porch. One of the vans is parked nearby and he shoves me toward it before returning inside the house.
Seconds later, a low cry draws my attention to the doorway. Bundled in Mischa’s arms is the girl, so pale that she practically glows in the faint sunlight.
“What are you doing?” I’ve stepped toward him without realizing it, my hands outstretched as if I mean to grab the girl from him.
Raising an eyebrow, Mischa descends the steps, barreling past me. “I’d concern yourself with what you are doing, Robert’s wife,” he grunts as he shoulders open the door to the back of the van and gingerly sets the girl on the farthest back seat. Crouching beside her, he looks at me and jerks his chin to the driver’s seat. “She needs a doctor, and you are going to get her safely to one. Drive.”
Icy shock paralyzes me. “You’re insane,” I croak.
“Yeah.” He nods. “That’s how I’ve fucking survived this long, Little Rose. Now, get in the fucking van—”
“No.” I’m already backing away, shaking my head. “I can’t drive.”
Something crosses his face too quickly to track. Shock?
“Well, today, you’re going to learn.”
My heart stops as he lunges from the van and I’m reminded of just how big he really is: a towering hulk of sinew and muscle. He grabs my shoulder and steers me to the driver’s seat only to shove me onto it.
“Gas,” he grunts, pointing to a metal knob jutting above the floor. “Brake.” He points to another knob beside the first. “Just keep us on the fucking road.”
He slams the door after me only to climb into the seat directly behind mine.
“Now, drive.” His breath bastes the back of my neck like a furnace, impossible to ignore. “And,” he adds, “if you think of stopping to pay your husband a little visit, think again.”
A hard surface nudges the back of my skull, a warning.
“Now, go.”
“H-how?” My shaking fingers can barely grip the steering wheel.
“Turn it on,” Mischa prompts, his tone oddly patient for once. “Like this.” Reaching over me, he twists a key already in the ignition and the van roars to life.
From there, I manage to pull onto a narrow country road just beyond the driveway without prompting. If he’s surprised, he says nothing.
But that distracting pressure is never withdrawn. I’m forced to contend with the silent threat it conveys while struggling to make sense of our surroundings—desolate, empty wilderness and a lone gravel road. Just where are we?
And where exactly is he taking us now?
“Why me?” I ask without taking my eyes off the road. We’re traveling at a snail’s pace, and Mischa nudges my shoulder in another silent command: go faster. Warily, I press the gas only to slam on the brake a second later as the van jerks forward. “Why aren’t you driving?” I rasp, hunched over the wheel, my heart racing.
“Why?” He sighs like he’s thinking over his answer. Then he scoffs. “Use that brain of yours, Little Rose.” Again, he taps my skull with that threatening, heavy object. “Take a guess. Who do you think is watching you right now?”
“Robert?” I risk taking my eyes from the road long enough to scan the desolate fields and copse of trees beyond us. A second’s appraisal reveals nothing. No long-lost husband lurking in the bushes. None of Robert’s men, either.
“Don’t be so naïve,” Mischa hisses into my ear as if reading my mind. “He’s not hiding in a tree, Little Rose. But he is watching. Yes.” He inhales as if sensing the fear wafting from my skin. “And you know it—”
“I could have left the other night, you know...” I swallow hard as his eyes cut in my direction. I’m not sure why I’m confessing this now. “One of his men found me. I could have left.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” I try to look at him directly, but that pressure on my skull grows.
“Look at the road,” he snaps as I swerve to stay on the thin strip of gravel. “Let’s just hope your husband keeps his distance now. Go faster.”
Again, I hit the gas too hard and the car jolts forward. This time when I hit the brake, a small moan comes from the back seat.
“Easy!” Mischa snaps. Suddenly, a shadow flickers from the corner of my eye and a wall of heat maneuvers into the seat beside me. “Look forward,” he commands as a heavy touch lands over my thigh, guiding how much pressure I apply. “Keep going straight until I say so.”
He’s crouched low, trying to hide as much of his bulk as he can—which is very little. His head is near my shoulder, his gaze intent. I feel it burning through my thin clothing to scorch the flesh and bone underneath.
“Faster,” he warns before applying more pressure to my thigh, sending the speed gauge even higher.
At this speed, my fingers struggle to keep the vehicle straight. It’s like I’m controlling my heartbeat more than four wheels and a metal carriage—with every touch, it strains against the bounds of my control.
Though maybe Mischa isn’t even the cause. For the first time, I glance at the rearview mirror and Mischa has to grab the wheel in my stead, shouting as the car careens off course.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses.
All I can say in response is, “We’re being followed.”
The sight of a black van in the distance isn’t what triggers the panic building in my chest. It’s a feeling. A deep-seated knowledge in my bones.
With every inch the approaching v
an gains, a part of me squirms in grim acknowledgment.
Robert didn’t send just his men this time.
“Fucking focus!” Mischa grips my chin hard enough to reinforce his presence. “When I say so, you take your hands off the wheel and slam on the gas. Don’t fucking let up. You got it?”
A hard swallow robs me of speech. All I can do is nod.
“Good.”
I wait, but he doesn’t increase the pressure on my leg, not even as the black van drifts closer and closer…
“Not yet,” he scolds when my foot twitches against the gas unprompted.
The van is still too far away to make out the figure in the driver’s seat—not that I need to. Robert never drove himself; he was always surrounded by his retinue of bodyguards. But he’s here. I feel it. I can taste it—the fear that chokes me whenever he’s near.
Like blood and ash. I’m suffocating on both.
“Now!”
My foot extends at the exact moment I’m shoved aside, crushed against the door by Mischa’s bulk. At the same time, he snatches the steering wheel, twisting it hard to the left.
Vomit crawls up my throat as the world twists and turns. Tires squeal. Another cry comes from the back seat, and above it all, a deep voice reiterates the same statement.
“It’s all right. It’s all right.”
The reassurance isn’t directed at me, but it acts as an anchor anyway. I’m grounded by the unsettling baritone as my body is flung toward an unseen destination. Whether it’s a comforting presence remains to be seen.
“It’s all right. It’s all-fucking-right.”
I don’t know how long he makes me stay like that, pinned beneath him, my foot on the gas. For hours, it seems like. When he finally grunts out a command to let up, my leg is cramping.
“Switch places.”
The van drifts aimlessly as he shifts his weight to shove me into the passenger’s seat while he claims my place with envious dexterity. The man moves like a dancer in some ways. In others, he’s like a battering ram.
Looking out the window, I can’t even begin to place our surroundings. Trees loom in every direction, rendering the landscape more desolate than before. There’s nothing around for miles.
Including Robert’s van.
“Where are we?” I warily ask.
“Far away from your husband.” Mischa’s disarming half-smile returns and my stomach dips in response. “Don’t look so disappointed.” He frowns, turning his attention to the back seat. The next second, the van skids to a stop and he’s leaping from the vehicle and climbing into the back. Craning my neck, I see what caught his attention: the girl utterly still on her back.
She isn’t moving.
“Fuck!” Mischa’s beside her in seconds, tugging her small body into his arms. “Don’t,” he snarls. His eyes are wide—crazed. I’ve never seen him like this. “Don’t you fucking dare, Aljona. Don’t you fucking dare…” He lowers his head, eyeing her chest intently. Whatever he senses makes him sigh and he sets her down. “She’s alright—”
“And you care.” I don’t mean to sound so cold. Judgmental, even.
“Don’t sound so hopeful, Little Rose,” Mischa scolds as he backs out of the van. “There’s still some shrapnel in her shoulder that needs to be removed. How else can I sell her without keeping her alive?”
I try not to flinch. He’s baiting me, and this time, I refuse to bite.
“You called her Aljona,” I point out, my throat dry. “Is that her name?”
I know it isn’t.
“What?” Mischa flinches and looks away. Annoyed? “She’ll live,” he says instead, slamming the door to the back seat. As he returns to the driver’s seat, I hear him grunt, “For now.”
“And you do care about her.” Maybe I’m needling him. Maybe I need to see his face as it hardens against that assumption. He grits his teeth, glowering at the road.
But he doesn’t deny it out loud.
Not once.
A monster could be concerned for the welfare of a child—but in my world, that shouldn’t be the case. Robert taught me well, after all.
Or perhaps only now can I reconcile the fact that he only ever told me lies.
Chapter 23
“Wake up.”
Someone shakes me roughly by the shoulders until I peel my eyes open. Mischa. He stares down on me, his face partially bathed in shadow.
“Come,” he grunts, jerking his chin toward the open door of the van. “We need to move.”
He reaches past me and gingerly grabs the girl, drawing her into his arms. Hunched over her pale body, he slips out of the van and into the night. I follow him warily, waving my hand to feel through the dark as my eyes adjust.
We’ve reached another deserted house, but this one isn’t quite as desolate as the previous shack. Made of stone, it towers above, its silhouette illuminated by a row of windows on the bottom floor, ablaze with orange light.
We don’t walk far before Mischa ushers me through a wooden door and slams it behind us.
“Vanya!” he shouts, barging past me, down a narrow hall that opens onto a wide entryway dominated by a circular staircase. “Vanya! Where the fuck are you—”
“Here!” The steps rattle as Vanya descends them. Then he stops halfway. “The doctor is ready. Bring her up.”
They dash to the upper level and I’m alone. Literally. None of Mischa’s men are lurking in the visible corners. I doubt there’s anyone guarding the door we just entered from. If I wanted…
No. I shake my head, inhaling sharply. I should want to—leave. Run. Escape Mischa, and forget Robert. I’d try to make it on my own, far from the whims of spiteful men and their petty wars. I’d be free—
A high-pitched whine cuts the air and my body goes rigid. A scream? Before I even register moving, I’m halfway up the stairs, clinging to a rickety banister for balance.
This home is more spacious than the last. A long hallway stretches in a half-circle with numerous doors branching off of it. The door to one has been left open, revealing the chaotic scene within.
Mischa and Vanya have the blond girl pinned to a wide bed, one at each of her shoulders, while another figure hovers above her, a metal instrument glinting in his grasp. My heart lurches to my throat, and I start forward, unsure of whether to help or do nothing.
Her chest is bare and a circular gash in her shoulder stands out in stark contrast to her frail, pale skin.
“Keep her still,” Mischa barks as the man I assume to be the doctor lowers a blade to the girl’s wound. “Keep her—fuck! You!” His eyes lock onto me and narrow. “Don’t just stand there. Do something!”
I jolt forward and grasp the only part of the girl within my reach. Her hand. I squeeze it as I sink to my knees beside the mattress and focus on her face. Sweat glistens on her forehead, and her eyes dart aimlessly around the room, the lids fluttering.
“It’s all right,” I tell her as the men continue to shout and clamor around us. “You’ll be okay. It’s all right.”
Her eyes meet mine, wide and watering. She doesn’t speak—not a single word—but I keep talking for the both of us, long after her eyes finally close.
“It’s all right…”
Hours later, the doctor leaves and Mischa lifts the girl from the bloodied sheets. A square bandage on her shoulder is the only clue as to the wound lurking beneath, freshly cleaned of any shrapnel. She’s unconscious, but her breathing is easier and Mischa takes care with her limp limbs, ensuring that her head is supported with every step he takes.
In the end, he doesn’t go far, carrying her to the next room over. This one is smaller, containing a narrow bed with clean sheets. Drawing them back with one hand, he sets her down and covers her gently. Too gently.
Aware of me watching, he stiffens as he returns to his full height. “Have you grown tired of hiding your role as a spy for your husband?” he wonders coldly. “Good. Your boldness will make it easier to hunt you down when you finally go crawling b
ack—”
“I told you before. I could have left.” I sound so tired. The statement hanging in the air could refer to the weather for all the emotion it contains. Still, I sigh and give him a half-hearted performance of the show he seems to crave. “But if you want to lash out, I’ll give you a reason. Why are you so afraid to let me see that you care about her?” I nod to the girl.
“My investment, you mean?” he counters, gesturing to her body with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure she’ll fetch a good price on the black mark—”
“Enough!” I reach up, raking my fingers through my hair as if to arrange my thoughts before he can knock them off track—which seems to be his only goal.
Unnerving me.
Inhaling deeply, I meet his gaze and suppress a shiver that racks my spine. “So the monster has a soft spot for children,” I say, my voice devoid of any mocking innuendo. “Why are you so against letting me see that?”
“See what?” He steps in close. His chest jars mine, knocking me off balance. When I step back, he advances, herding me into the hall. “Don’t let your naïve little hopes deceive you, Rose—”
“You’re right.” I turn away from him. We’re alone and the fact strikes me as odd. No Vanya. None of his men. Why? At least there are no witnesses. “I’m done being naïve,” I continue, wringing my fingers together. “So I’ll take you up on your offer. I’ll give you my body—”
“Don’t play.” His sharp intake of breath catches me off guard.
Blinking, I scan his face, hunting through those dark eyes for any hint of the lust conveyed in that violent sound.
“Go on,” he snaps, baring his teeth. “Or are mind games another trick you learned from your husband?”
“No,” I admit truthfully. “He never taught me how to gamble. But he did teach me the power of bartering.”
Sex for safety.
Brutality for security.
Ignorance for a lie.
“So I’m making you an offer. I’ll give you my body—”
“And?” Mischa interjects. He’s regained his composure already, and I force a hard swallow. “Name your fucking price.”
