“No?” The corner of his mouth quirks, but even that brief bit of emotion can’t touch the coldness in his eyes. “You do seem to know a thing or two about Roulette, Little One,” he suspects. “So we will play.”
He turns to the doorway, beckoning me to follow with a nod of his chin. This time, he leads me back to the ornate entrance and I’m allowed to take more details of the interior in than before.
A crystal chandelier bathes the grand hall in a warm, orange glow, illuminating curved archways leading off into various corridors. When Mischa turns down one, I follow, keeping as much distance between us as I dare to.
“Here.” He comes to a stop near an open doorway. Beyond it is a dining room with a long oak table and windows framed in cream curtains. “Sit,” he commands.
I slip past him and take the seat farthest from his position. He laughs at the display, and I presume that he writes it off as an act of fear. But no. I can see him more clearly from here. How he stands. The tension in his posture. The way he hones his gaze on me as if it’s the only way he can keep from looking at anything else. Then he leaves, and I know instinctively not to move.
I sit. I wait. His games aren’t as predictable as Robert’s. He leaves me guessing by the end of each round. He lets me sweat. Where my husband sought only to amuse himself with my pain, Mischa seeks to…
Ruin me. In any way he can. With brutality. With violent sex. With stingy mercy?
I tense as he reappears at the mouth of the room, holding a plate in his hand. The food on it is simple: a sandwich and scattered potato chips. My stomach pangs for it anyway, and I fight to keep utterly still as he carries the plate to me. When he stops beside my chair, I expect another display of dominance.Beg. Ask.
Instead, he unceremoniously slams the offering down, and I don’t wait for his permission. I grab the sandwich, rip it in half, and shove as much as I can into my mouth at one time. In three gulping bites, I choke it down and start on the chips like a damn animal.
Ellen Winthorp dined with decorum. She ate her food from her husband’s hand or devoured it slowly with whatever knife or fork the occasion called for.
That woman is dead. In Mischa’s realm, there are no manners. Just taking—whatever I can before he rips it out of reach.
“And sleep,” he says once I’ve cleared the plate, continuing our conversation as if never interrupted. “You wanted that as well…”
“Yes,” I cautiously reply.
“Then come.”
Grappling with a partially filled stomach, I trail him back up the stairs and into his room. The bed isn’t meant for me. I know that even before he reaches down to tug his boots off and approach the mattress himself. “So sleep,” he mockingly goads.
My eyes fall over the corner beside the dresser. I approach it, prepared to sink down and rest my head against the wall.
“No.” He snaps his fingers, forcing my attention on him. He’s seated, lying back against the headboard, his legs extended before him. “My floor is too good for you, Little One.” He waves his hand, commanding me closer. It’s only as he spreads his legs just enough to reveal a sliver of space between them that I realize just what he intends. “I said you could sleep, but I never said peacefully, did I? I will be waiting for you in your dreams.” The malice in his voice robs my lungs of air. “You will smell me. Feel me. Taste me. I won’t let you escape, even for a second.” He nods toward his chest. “Now, sleep.”
I strip my face of emotion as I lower myself beside him onto the bed. Then I turn and brace a trembling hand against his shoulder, finding enough leverage to sink against him, trapped on either side by a massive thigh. His breath scalds the top of my head while his heartbeat thunders beneath me. He’s right. I taste him. His scent floods my nostrils. A cold, sickening certainty fills me as I let my eyes drift shut with the bruised side of my face against his chest.
I’ll dream of him.
I’ll die of him.