Page 14 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 5

I’m alone for barely five minutes before the other men return. With quiet efficiency, they take up their vacated positions, and I’m ignored once again. Heeding Vanya’s warning, I don’t move from my kneeling position. I stare at the wall and count the seconds. It’s a familiar habit, though my surroundings differ from my room in Robert’s suite. The basic gist of the game never changes.

Wait for the monster’s return. How long will this one take?

Two hours? Four? By the sixth, biological concerns take precedence over psychological ones. My bladder aches, painfully full. Noises rumble from my stomach, clashing with the occasional murmured conversation from the men. The floor of the cage is lined only in crumpled newspaper that chafes against my contorted limbs. Using it for anything but padding is an uncomfortable dilemma to contemplate.

So I stall.

Breathe, Ellen.My lungs expand to obey my old mantra, and for the first time in years, my brain replays snippets of the creature who originally inspired it. Not Robert, though he is similar in shape. A man. A boy. Someone who didn’t belong, his eyes catlike in the darkness.

“You breathe,” he hissed to me. “You don’t think. Don’t feel. Just breathe...”

A noise breaks my concentration, dragging me back to the present. Night must have fallen. I can barely see the leaves on the wallpaper anymore when Vanya finally returns. I recognize his unsteady gait even before his hand slams against the top of my cage.

“If I let you out, you obey me. No questions. No complaints. Understand? Try to run and Mischa will be your least concern.”

I nod. At the mere hint of freedom, my muscles throb in torment, and I unfurl my sore limbs the moment I hear the latch disengage.

“Slow,” Vanya barks as I twist in the narrow space and pull myself through the cage’s opening. “Slow…wait—”

I freeze, crouched at his feet while my eyes struggle to adjust to the shadow.

“Here. Put this on.”

Something soft brushes my cheek. I reach up, trying to decipher the garment through touch alone. It’s thin. Satin? It sports sleeves like a shirt but opens in the center and seems long enough to cover me at least to my knees.

“It’s the only thing I could find,” Vanya adds almost apologetically. “Hurry up. Then follow me and keep your head down.”

He shifts his weight, blocking me from sight—either on purpose or accidentally—as I scramble into what I quickly realize is a robe. After tying the thin sash around my waist, I rise to my feet, forced to cling to the wall for balance. Movement is painful, but I grit my teeth and face Vanya without swaying. He towers above me, almost as tall as his leader. After casting me an appraising glance, he heads for a doorway, leaving me to follow.

Mischa may be the leader here, but I suspect that Vanya isn’t too far behind him in their hierarchy. There’s respect conveyed in the fact that no one questions him as he leads me from the room and down a narrow hallway.

A bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminates a row of closed doors and more peeling wallpaper. Eventually, Vanya stops beside one door and opens it. “Use it,” he says, jerking his chin toward the opening.

A bathroom lurks beyond, small and cramped, but containing a toilet at least and a rusted sink. I nearly collapse with relief, but when I attempt to close the door, Vanya shakes his head.

“Not all the way. I won’t look,” he adds when I stiffen. “Go on.”

My body is in too much distress to give a damn if he does watch. Crouching as low over the toilet as I dare, I relieve myself. As my bladder empties, I have no choice but to face the woman watching me from the dust-covered mirror above the sink. She’s pale, her hair hanging wild around her shoulders. A sheer black robe doesn’t shield much of her body. Not its nakedness. Not its scars.

“If you’re done, hurry up,” Vanya warns.

Obediently, I wipe and flush the rickety toilet only to realize that the plumbing must have given out years ago. My waste just sits there, mingling with others I didn’t notice in my haste. Vomit surges up my throat, but I manage to choke it down and stagger to the sink to wash my hands. There’s soap at least. With my wet fingers, I slick the worst of my tangled curls back before tapping on the door to convey that I’m finished.

When I creep into the hallway, Vanya casts me a single glance before heading farther down the hall. We reach another doorway that opens onto a room that might have been a kitchen once. Now, there’s too much clutter to tell. Boxes crowd the few countertops. The stove has been gutted, which leaves an empty space now filled with bags of garbage. The only item in working condition appears to be a stained refrigerator with duct tape on the sides to seal it. Vanya has to try twice to heave it open only to reveal that it contains just a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread.

“Here.” He breaks off a slice and hands it to me. After rummaging through the chaos scattered over the counter, he surfaces with a glass and fills it with water.

I accept both, genuinely grateful. “Thank you—”

“Don’t thank me,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the food in my hands. “Hurry up and eat.”

I devour the bread in three bites and down the water just as quickly. Now that the shock of my predicament has set in, horror and familiarity slowly replace the fear. I’ve been a prisoner before. I know the role to play. I also know that most captors don’t offer their prey a shred of dignity—as much as can be found in a robe and some privacy to use the restroom—or let them from their cell for a walk. Not without a reason.

Why? Guilt? I try to suss out his motives as I gingerly rub my hands together to scrape the crumbs from them. The old man is good at containing his secrets, however. I discern nothing from his stern expression. Just the cold knowledge that, as much as I’m trying to understand him, he’s already unraveled me.

“What’s your name?” he demands, catching my probing stare.

---