Page 59 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

“You know most of them will follow you,” Vanya agrees. “But Sergei—”

“I can handle him,” Mischa interjects. “But can you? You made your choice to stay by my side, not his. Tell me now if you regret it?”

Vanya frowns, eyeing something far beyond this conversation only he can see. Finally, he shakes his head. “No.”

“Good.” Mischa squares his shoulders, continuing down the hall.

He wants to say more, I can tell. Something personal. Whatever it is, the words never leave his throat, and Vanya continues in the opposite direction.

“You’re losing already, Little One,” Mischa warns. He snatches my wrist, drawing me to his side. “You are mine, remember?”

It’s one role I don’t know how to emulate, ironically. Robert thought of me as his trophy. His wife.Hisprize. Mischa seems to expect a certain demeanor. Maybe the answer lurks in the heated way he uttered those words.You are mine.

But how does one display the ownership of a beast? It’s a trick question. Monsters never possess their victims. They rip them apart. Devour. Destroy. Then they lord over the mangled pieces.

He already has me hanging together by a thread. I’m not prideful enough to deny it. I can sense my soul splintering around me with every passing second that his heat leeches into my skin.

There was a reason Robert never gambled. “Only fools with nothing worth having risk it all,” he smugly claimed.

He was the son of a wealthy businessman with the world at his fingertips, after all. What use did he have for something as elusive as hope and luck?

I’m not even half as secure as he is, yet I still can’t make the leap. So I eye the floor of the hallway and count the steps we take until Mischa finally pulls me to a stop. We’re in a larger room I don’t recognize. A polished floor stretches beneath a vaulted ceiling with scattered fixtures casting intermittent light. A meeting room?

There’s a table in the center, like the makeshift one at the safe house where Boris haggled for me. More men fill this room, however. At least ten are seated around the table, with more lurking behind them, flooding nearly every available space. At a glance, the group appears homogenous, but on a second appraisal, it’s easy to see the subtle divides that separate some groups from the others. Of the ten men seated, each one seems to command a section of the room wherein those gathered are facing him. Some are wearing suits. Others are wearing casual fatigues like Mischa. One man is even lounging in a simple tee shirt and jeans, smirking at those around him.

As Mischa approaches the remaining chair, a hush falls. Behind us, numerous footsteps echo in unison. His men, spearheaded by Vanya.

“So, Stepanov,” one of the men says, seizing the attention as Mischa sits. He’s older, his eyes piercing and narrowed. He glances Mischa over with barely concealed disgust, but there’s respect in how he inclines his head toward him, even as he spits his words out. “You called us here. For what? To join in your insane fucking plan—”

“To talk,” Mischa says, effortlessly cutting over him though he never raises his voice.

I find myself biting my lower lip in recognition of one tool I’ve only ever seen Winthorp men possess so freely:power.

It’s in the way he holds his head. How his shoulders convey a fearless grace. He’s not the oldest man here, or the biggest, or even the handsomest. But no one can keep their eyes off him for very long.

“To talk?” another man wonders, his accent thick and indiscernible. “Or to beg for help in your fucking war with Winthorp—”

“Show some respect,” another man interjects, dark-haired and solidly built. His eyes hold an eerie sense of calm that negates the impatience of the other two men vying to speak above him. “Nikolaus. Yohan. You forget your place before yourPakhan.”

That word has the effect of a whip. The two men stiffen in their seats. Their glares remain, but they hold their tongues.

“Now, Mischa,” the calmer man says, meeting his gaze from across the table. “We’re listening.”

“It’s time we head off the Winthorps at the fucking head,” Mischa declares, his voice reverberating to the farthest reaches of the room. “And I don’t speak out of some petty fucking feud,” he adds. “This is about survival.”

“Survival?” Nikolaus, the older man, scoffs. “You meangreed. There have been rumors, Pakhan.That you went after the man himself. Robert. His daughter. Considering the little bitch is on her honeymoon with one of the most powerful money lenders in the world, I presume that you miscalculated.”

“I did lead an attack on her,” Mischa admits without a shred of shame. “Robert was prepared. He used a decoy. Some disposable toy of his son’s.” He shrugs with a malicious jerk of his shoulder. “I gave her to my men and left her body for the bastard to find—”

“And found yourself a distraction, I see,” Nikolaus snidely interjects, turning his attention to me. He sneers in disgust at what little of my face he can see through the curtain of my hair. “You’re getting more blatant, Mischa—”

“Show some respect,” another man cuts in, forcefully slamming his hand over the table.

“Enough.” Mischa sits forward, his smile dismissive. “This bitch is more than a distraction.” He grabs my wrist, tugging me closer to the table, until I have no choice but to sit on his lap.

The other men tense, warily watching the display. He’s never brought a woman to their meetings before, I suspect. Not like this. His arm possessively encircles my waist from behind, but there’s tension coiled into every strip of muscle. A warning, broadcasted solely to me.Play your role, Little One.

“She’s more like a lucky charm. She’s skilled at spotting liars, you see.Traitors.”

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