Page 22 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 8

Robert’s wife.I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud. At least not to another person. In my old world, they would have been met with something akin to pity and decorum. A tight nod perhaps. Or maybe a sympathetic pat on my hand. Not disgust. Not revulsion so potent that I taste it on my tongue.

“His wife?” He mulls the title over, deciding within an instant that it must be a lie. His pupils constrict menacingly. “Robert Sr. has no wife—”

“Not him.” I shake my head, too tired to specify.

“His son?”

I just nod.

“You’re lying.”

My body stiffens at his tone, but I’m not quick enough to cower beyond his reach. He grabs me, his fingers clenching the back of my scalp, twisting through my hair.

“Hedoesn’t have a wife, either. And I doubt that he would let her be used as a decoy.”

It’s a question I haven’t let myself think on. Has Robert grown tired of me? Or has his father finally sought to put an end to his son’s obsession?

Both scenarios are equally alarming.

“You wear no ring,” Mischa adds, jerking his chin toward my naked hand. “I know of every goddamn Winthorp for generations, and I’ve never heard your name before.”

“I-I’m not…approved.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. The only explanation that doesn’t require divulging the full truth. Perhaps I’m not that desperate to live after all? Some wounds aren’t worth reopening. Some horrors can’t be faced alone.

Regardless, the answer seems to satisfy my captor. He frowns, and I can tell from the grudging set to his jaw that he’ll believe that much at least: that the defiant son of Robert Winthorp Sr. would take a wife without his notorious father’s permission. After all, there is one undisputable fact this night has proven.

“He sent his men after you,” Mischa says, obviously annoyed by what he can’t explain. Something bright and terrible flits across his gaze, illuminating the irises. Before I can blink, the knife returns. “He’s willing to kill for you. And you shall return to him inpieces.”

Pain! Fire sears through my skull: the result of another cut slicing right through the first. Instinct takes hold of my body. I try to turn away, but his free hand grips my scalp tighter, holding me in place while he raises the blade again. He lets me see the tip of it, painted red with my blood. Then he lashes out, piercing the meat of my cheek, down my jaw.

“You are number fifteen,” he tells me over my whimper.

Somehow, I’m still fully aware as he makes another cut, angled toward the first. God, it hurts—just like he wants it to. He takes his time, slicing through flesh bit by bit. And I see lightning. My eyes flood and overflow. I’m shaking in his grip as air escapes my lungs in a pathetic, wheezing gasp.

“The fifteenth martyr in a blood war,” he continues, his voice wavering.

At first, I assume it’s because I’m delirious. Dizzy. But no… I see his throat jerk as he swallows hard. There’s an unsteadiness to his grip that I didn’t notice before—I’m not shaking on my own.

“You may be an innocent in this, but I will kill you, Ellen Winthorp,” he promises me, negating any suspicion that what he feels might be guilt. No. He’s resigned to my murder. “But not yet.”

He pushes me to the floor and leaves me here, bleeding over the carpet. I count his footsteps as they fade somewhere deeper inside the house. When that sound trails off…I count my heartbeat.

* * *

“Do not hate him.” Vanya insists as he dabs at the blood from my face with a wadded piece of cloth.

Is he speaking to me or himself? I can’t tell. I’m not sure when the older man returned to find me, bleeding and broken, either. All I know is partial relief as he treats my wounds.

“It’s not you he hates. He wasn’t always this way,” he admits almost reluctantly. “There was a time when he’d never… Do not hate him.”

Is hate what I feel for the newest monster to mutilate my body? I’m not sure. Maybe I just don’t care enough to define it. Every man has a story to explain away the demons that eventually consume him. I’ve learned the history of one. I’m not keen to learn another.

But more than his violence troubles Vanya about his leader. Frowning, he draws the cloth away and reaches for a pack of gauze. Inside is a square piece of bandage, which he places over my left cheek and secures with tape. Then he sighs. “You are my responsibility,” he says, changing the subject. “I do not want to bind you. Or lock you in the cage.”

I can’t swallow my sigh of relief. “Thank—”

“But,” he says over me, “I will if I have to. What you do reflects on me. Do you understand?”

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