Page 54 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 17

Prisoners have no right to make demands. So I pray instead to whatever higher power will listen. For ruthless, vile destruction.Amen.

Torment is what I crave—at least when it comes to Mischa. Torment I can barely handle. Torture my body can only just withstand.

Pain, pain, pain.

It’s the only way I can compare him to Robert, measuring their varying flavors of agony inflicted.

But there is no comparison tothis. There is no chilling memory in my head to examine this scenario through. On the rare shred of untouched space on my psyche, Mischa carves a new terrifying ordeal to relive.

As promised, I dream of him.

And I wake up knowing what true hell is. It’s not the measured cruelty Robert dished out. It’s not fearful memories or repulsive scars. It’s peace—being able to find it, even for a second, while in the arms of a monster.

What a terrible power to lord over someone.

The moment I regain my senses, my eyes fly open and I view the room from behind a cage composed of muscular, tattooed limbs. Regaining my bearings feels like assembling the pieces of a crudely made puzzle. It’s morning. Gray daylight glimmers around the edges of the curtains. Beneath my ear, a steady heartbeat taps out a constant rhythm while thick fingers twist through my hair…

Not tugging for once. Just feeling, rubbing the strands together and testing their weight.

“You don’t like to be held,” Mischa declares as my body stiffens while his fingers brush my scalp. “You tremble in your sleep. You flinch.”

He didn’t sleep himself; I can hear it in his coarse tone. No, he studied. How to strip me bare and catch me off guard.

As if aware of my suspicions, he flattens his hand against my skull, applying slight pressure. “Your husband was lenient with you,” he adds knowingly. “He kept you skittish.”

Is that what he calls it?

“You know how they test when soldiers are ready for war? When they’re broken enough?” He untangles one of his hands from my hair and snatches my wrist, displaying each finger. “They’re ordered to stick their hands in an open flame, but it’s not enough to just obey. Only a few can stand to watch their skin peel and burn until they’re given the order to pull their hand away.Theyare ready. But those who flinch out of reach before the command is given…” He manually places my hand on his hip, watching how it quivers. “They are pathetic fools. Poorly trained.”

Like young boys who leave little girls untouched?

I’m not brave enough to ask. When he releases me, I make the mistake of believing that he’s made his point, ended the game. My heart races as I plan my escape. Cautiously, I brace one of my hands over the mattress and attempt to push myself upright.

One fierce tug on my scalp shoves me right back down. “Did I say you could move?”

But I need to. I can only ignore his nearness for so long. His thighs create a stifling prison, trapping me within a cage I’m not used to. He’s right: Robert never wielded physical touch as a weapon. He slept beside me sparingly, only as his idea of a treat after a particularly brutal session. He never held me in his arms simply to prove a point.

But that highlights another difference between my husband and my captor: Robert wanted me somewhat whole.

Mischa wants me utterly broken, in pieces too small to ever resemble their original shape.

He extends his torture long enough to ensure I learn the rules. Onlyhecan dictate how much I move my head and how much of him I feel against my aching, battered frame. But he can’t control one aspect of his anatomy…

It slams against my stomach with every breath I take, dangerously hard. I cringe away from the contact as much as I can, and he chuckles, twisting his fingers more harshly through my hair.

“Don’t act shy now.” It’s not a taunt, but a dare. “I’m sure your husband didn’t let you rest for long—”

“I…I’m not on birth control.” I don’t know why I chose to admit that to him. Considering his threats to end my life, it doesn’t really matter. Maybe I subconsciously needed to voice another comparison between him and Robert out loud.

While Robert hated the medicine behind hormone-manipulating drugs, he studied my cycle religiously, planning his “needs” around the days that would be most beneficial to him.

As expected, Mischa laughs, shrugging his shoulder. “Pregnancy is your last concern, Little One,” he says, letting a lethal implication lurk in between the words. “But…” As he forms a fist and nudges my hip with the tops of his knuckles, I stiffen. “You’ve had a child before. I saw the scar.”

Scar. Warily, my fingers creep to the mark in question, tracing it through the fabric of his shirt. It’s one of the few I never observed in much detail. I can only recall its general shape: a curved, jagged line at the base of my abdomen. After a few brief seconds, I let my hand fall.

“Did your husband keep that a secret as well?” He nudges me more firmly when I don’t answer.

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