Page 35 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 11

Ibarely fit the dress meant for the girl—it’s too damn big. Made of white cotton, its modest neckline is more conservative than anything else I’ve worn over the past few days. But that’s about the only improvement.

The tailored suit Nicolai provided fits Mischa perfectly, however.Unfairly.With his hair slicked away from his face, he could almost pass for another person. Some rich, cold businessman with enough money to hide whatever secrets his scars might reveal.

In the right lighting, he could even pass for a Winthorp.

The only flaw in his ruse is that he drives himself rather than commands a chauffeur, as Robert would. After we changed, he left the girl with his two companions a few streets away from the rendezvous point. They were to call someone from the safe house and then Mischa would return later. If…

Well, I suppose that depends on how quickly my body digests the thin layer of material encasing the cocaine. An hour, Nicolai said.

Twenty minutes have passed already.

“You fucking idiot.” They’re the only three words Mischa has said to me since pulling off. “Do you have any idea what the hell you’ve done? I should kill you. I’ll fucking make you suffer—”

“Like that girl would have suffered?”Oh, God.The vitriolic response spilled out of me before I could choke it down. Though I doubt there’s any room left in my stomach for more suppression. More lies. More fear. So, for once, I forget my mantra. I don’t breathe. I yell. “She’s a child!”

“Is that so?” He laughs darkly while manipulating the steering wheel, cutting off an oncoming vehicle, the driver of which honks his displeasure. “You don’t know a fucking thing about thatchild. You think she hasn’t done it before?”

Because she has. Scars haunted her eyes, deeper and more violent than anything found on my skin. Scars like the ones haunting the boy who intruded into Briar’s room all those years ago. Though their circumstances may be different, they both had no choice in the matter.

“So that makes it right?” I question. “Even Robert wouldn’t—”

“Don’t.” With one hand, he grips the back of my neck in warning. “You don’t know a fucking thing about what your Winthorp is capable of.”

“He never cut my face,” I counter, glaring through blurred vision. I couldn’t hold my tears back if I tried. So I don’t. I let them fall. “Henever put me in a cage, and he’s done…terrible, terrible things. But even he wouldnever—”

“You think you know me enough to compare me to him?”

The vehicle slows to a stop. We’re on a narrow street where lights flicker nearby. Flashlights? At first, I think he’s stopped to threaten me, wasting precious time. But then a beam of light shines directly through the windshield.

“Shit.”

Mischa lets me go, and I hunch over, hiding my face. It’s the one little detail I didn’t consider before sacrificing myself. The girl was clean and whole enough to play a role in Nicolai’s charade without catching notice. Even Mischa excels at playing pretend. As an officer approaches his side of the car, he sits taller and lowers his window, resembling the guest of some important gala. Only I can see the gun tucked beneath his seat.

“Good evening,” he greets while I observe his every move through the curtain of my hair.

“Where are you headed?” The unfamiliar voice belongs to the officer.

“We just came back from the opera,” Mischa says, nodding toward me. “She fell asleep halfway and demanded we return to the hotel.”

He chuckles warmly while the officer peers in my direction. “Oh? Can I see your ID and registration please?”

Mischa hands the documents over and precious seconds pass while the officer scrutinizes each one. Finally… He steps back and beckons us forward with a wave of his hand. “Move along.”

As the officer passes by, Mischa visibly deflates. He’s more cautious than nervous. Like he accused of the girl, he’s done this before. Just how many times? Withhowmany women, their bellies stuffed with drugs? I’m almost tempted to ask him, but then I notice the time on the dashboard.

There isn’t much left.

To compound matters, Nicolai vastly understated the “exclusive company” his client must keep. Police cars are lurking near the front of the hotel when we draw closer, their lights turned off as officers scour those entering and leaving the elegant building.

“Shit.” Rather than circle for the valet, Mischa takes a shortcut toward the employee entrance. He knows the way, parking in an empty, secluded space beside a dumpster.

I exit the van after him and realize, even before I see his jaw clench in frustration, that there’s no way in hell we can go through the main security. Parking alone cost us three minutes.

There’re barely twenty left.

“This way. Keep your head down.” He takes my wrist and drags me across the parking lot and then through an emergency exit that opens into a laundry room of some kind. By some oversight, there’s no security here—yet, anyway—and Mischa moves swiftly, navigating a maze of rooms and industrial-sized machinery.

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