Page 23 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

I nod.

“Good.” He stands, wincing once he’s on his feet. From this angle, it’s not hard to see why. Blood cakes the side of his face near his ear.

Something soft strikes my fingers and I look down and find that I’ve reached for the cloth without realizing it. When I start to stand, Vanya says nothing. He simply watches as I raise the fabric in a trembling fist and dab it along his ear. He’s too tall. I have to stand on tiptoe to clean the wound properly. Underneath all the blood is only a hairline scratch, caused by glass I presume.

Rather than thank me, Vanya snatches the cloth and tosses it aside. Then he gathers up the rest of his supplies and heads for the doorway. “You’ll stay in here. I’ll try to find you a blanket, but I suggest you make do until then. I’ll keep watch outside the door. Get some sleep.”

Gratitude renders me speechless. By the time I remember how to speak, he’s already gone, closing the door to the room after him. Unless my ears play tricks, I hear the lock engage. Oddly enough, I feel safer here than at any other point in this nightmare. I don’t care to decipher the reasons for his kindness. Maybe they’re entirely selfish, as Mischa insinuated.

Still…

No matter how small, the mercy is rare enough to be cherished.

At least without wondering how long it may last.

* * *

Vibrations draw me awake. Footsteps? Gasping, I open my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling and a chillingly familiar silhouette.

“I changed my mind,” Mischa declares. “Get up.”

He heads for the door, leaving me to follow. Limping, I struggle to keep up before he can issue a threat not to fall behind. Pale daylight spills in through the window, illuminating part of the narrow hall while leaving the rest of the house bathed in shadow.

It’s older than the last one, with rotting floorboards and a smaller floorplan. The men seem to be spread throughout rather than grouped in one room. They keep their guns close and linger near windows. Searching.

Up a rickety staircase are two rooms. I spy a bed in one, but I’m herded toward another. Small and confined, the space contains a card table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Black sheets shroud the windows, and a single lamp in the corner casts dingy yellow light.

“Sit.” Mischa nods his chin toward the metal folding chair closest to me.

Aware of him watching my every move, I lower myself slowly, keeping my gaze trained on my imminent surroundings. There is nothing else in this room. In fact, it appears to have no purpose other than this: silence, isolation.

“Look at me, Ellen Winthorp.”

He’s seated across from me. Shadows distort his features, making his eyes seem darker, his face narrower. Hollow.

Without warning, he reaches toward me, sliding a finger along the gauze taped to my cheek. “Have you seen your face?”

There’s a taunt tucked into the question. Beneath the bandage, the wound sears, reacting to his nearness. One of his knuckles deliberately nudges the area that feels the deepest and I hiss in response.

“Take the bandage off.”

My fingers shake as I obey, carefully undoing Vanya’s handiwork.

“Look.” He places something on the table and shoves it toward me. A mirror, small and round, with a crack in the glass.

I lift it, seeking enough light to make out my reflection. A haunted ghost stares back, her blue eyes wide and empty. Blood coats the left side of her face, running in rivulets down her throat. I swallow hard at the sight, but that’s not what he wanted me to see.

It’s the shape of the wound. Careful. Intentional. I have to tilt my jaw to make it out fully. From beneath my eye all the way down to my jaw, he carved an X. Beside it, extending toward my ear, is a jaggedly sliced letter V. The nonsensical doodles of a madman?

I almost assume as much until I recall what he said.You are number fifteen.XV. He marked my fate in Roman numerals. If I live long enough for the wounds to heal, they will leave scars proclaiming my fate forever.

“Look at me.”

I lower the mirror and find him watching me. There’s no hiding beneath his gaze. Heat wells behind my eyes and spills out. Each tear sinks into the rent skin, setting the flesh on fire. I don’t turn away from him or try to disguise the pain, however. I let him see it.

And he should relish this moment. His jaw clenches as he tracks the descent of every drop of moisture. Every wince. Does it justify his hatred? Feed his rage? For once, I can’t tell.

“How did you meet your husband?”

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