Page 49 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 15

“Marnie was your mother. How?”

I stiffen at how he voices that question. Cautious, not shocked. Intrigued, not disbelieving. It’s almost as if he knew—or at least suspected the truth all along. Which is impossible. Unless Robert slipped in the handling of his most closely guarded secret.

The burning desire to know for sure gives me the strength to glance over my shoulder to decipher Mischa’s expression for myself. He can’t even hide the curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “All anyone ever told me was that she left the manor shortly after Briar was born—”

“Left?” He stresses the word, coating it in a warning.

“Yes,” I say. “I don’t know why. A year later, she returned, pregnant with me. Robert, out of mercy, let her keep me, as long as she didn’t claim I was his and kept her indiscretion quiet.”

Though, ironically, he was the one who never let anyone forget it.

“And you know nothing about your father?” Mischa prods.

“No. She never mentioned who he was.”

“And you’re sure of that?”

Again, he sounds too careful. As if he knows a secret puzzle piece missing from the narrative that I’ve yet to see for myself. Something to explain the sadness that coated my mother’s features like paint, perhaps? It’s a dark thought I can’t escape. In a futile attempt to, I risk facing him directly—and instantly regret the action.

He’s cold again, eyeing me as if I’m something best viewed from a distance. A threat. An enemy to be conquered.

My body burns, remembering what it meant to be at his mercy, and I wrap my arms tighter around my knees—not that I can escape his scrutiny for very long.

“So you lived there, in that fucking manor.”

I nod, almost grateful for the change in subject. “Yes. I grew up alongside Briar, but she was more my mistress than my sister. I played with her. I cleaned up after her. I…”Loved her.“I didn’t know about the plan,” I say instead. “That I was a decoy. I didn’t… She asked me to join her at her wedding,” I admit, not recognizing the hard note in my own voice. The memories of that day hurt twice as much to relive with him watching. How happy I was. How naïve. How foolish. “She bought me new clothes. She did my hair… I didn’t know.”

If he believes me, he says nothing and lets the silence linger between us while my own thoughts fester and feed on what little sanity I have left.

Finally, he asks, “And your husband?”

“Robert?” I inhale and exhale slowly, steeling myself for the next phase in my sordid tale. “He wasn’t cruel to me, growing up,” I admit. “His mother died when he was young and he rarely spent time at the manor. Though, when he did come home from school, he was never malicious. Some could say he protected me.”

Or saved me for himself.

“When I turned nineteen, he expressed his interest. I accepted it, knowing full well what that would mean.”

I suppose I learned that lesson as a child: he taught me who the real monster was all along.

“He never raped me.” It feels important to say that. With rape, there was a victim. My body, however, had been sacrificed.

But did that make it any easier to bear?

My heart shies from the answer.No.

“I knew that he had f-fetishes,” I add thickly. “I knew he could be violent. I knew that being with him would be an ordeal within itself. But he was better than—” A sudden tightness in my throat chokes off my voice. My wounded cheek burns as tiny ripples form in the water around my chin, created by falling tears. “I made my choice,” I force myself to say. Hearing it out loud stings like nothing else. Not a million jagged cuts or bruises.

But Mischa isn’t swayed by my emotions. He phrases an even crueler question as my tears continue to fall. “And me? You really think you remember me?”

“I remember a boy,” I counter. “Someone who looked at me and showed me…”

What? An ounce of humanity?

“M-mercy,” I decide, sucking in a breath. “He showed me mercy—”

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