Page 66 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 20

Iwake up twisted in black sheets that smell of musk and sweat. For a brief, dangerous moment, I forget. My eyes flutter open as I expect what I’ll see: a view of my suite at Winthorp manor. Breakfast should be coming soon, Robert soon after. Resigned, I turn toward the door—but white walls don’t greet me. Then the hum of a man’s deep, unsteady breathing rips the fantasy away once and for all.

Not Robert.

He always let me recollect myself in peace. He neverwatchedover me in my sleep, his gaze searing my skin.

“I know you’re awake,” Mischa says after nearly a full minute of silence, his voice gruff. “Get up.”

I dutifully roll onto my side, taking in more of my surroundings. He left me slung over the edge of the bed with my feet against the floor. I still feel his release drying against my inner thigh, along with his taste on my tongue. A flicker of motion from the corner of my eye reveals him standing near the opposite side of the bed, fully dressed.

“Here.” He lets something fall beside me onto the bed and offers an object clenched in his hand: a glass of water. “Swallow it.”

Swallow?Groaning, I muster my sore limbs enough to sit upright as my hand feels over the sheets. Something small and round strikes my fingers. White. A pill? “W-what is it?” I risk asking, my voice hoarse.

Could he have devised some new plan to use me against Robert? Drug me? Poison?

He doesn’t provide an answer for so long that my muscles start to protest from the awkward position. Is it a test? Or maybe something so much worse, I realize, looking up. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw clenched against a response.

“My plan doesn’t include sending you back to your husband pregnant,” he says finally.

Oh.The pill in my hand takes on a less nefarious purpose. I swallow it diligently and sip from the glass he’s shoved into my hand. This action raises a question I don’t have the nerve to voice: Why now? Only days ago, he scoffed at the idea of contraception.

Has he decided to extend his timeline for my capture? When put into perspective with my inevitable death, I’m not sure what’s more appealing: dying sooner or later?

“I think you played your role too well last night, Little Rose,” Mischa adds, frowning. “You caught more notice than I expected.” His hand brushes my bandaged cheek and I recoil. The touch almost felt genuine. Unconcerned, Mischa curls his fingers into a fist instead. “Someone offered to buy you. They offered mea lotto buy you.”

“You still plan to sell me,” I deduce, folding my hands together.

Suddenly, his previous action makes perfect sense. Am I surprised? Disappointed? At least he saw the value in ensuring he only has one life to take when he finally tires of me. How noble.

“Who said anything about selling you?” Mischa wonders, tilting my chin toward him. “Oh, no, Robert’s wife. I am not finished with you yet.”

But… I sense a big one, even as the seconds pass without him saying it.

He scans my face with renewed interest. Something is on his mind. Something pressing enough to supposedly make him overlook accepting money for me. At least for now.

“You said Marnie was your mother.”

It’s surprisingly difficult, hearing her name come out of his mouth. His accent distorts the two beautiful syllables I’ve only heard uttered inside my head for so long.

“Y-yes—”

“When were you born?”

“She died when I was seven,” I admit, skirting the question directly. Why? I don’t know. He’s asking for too much. More than Robert ever has. More than anyone.

“Which makes you twenty-three,” he says, deducing my age for himself. “You are younger than I thought, Little Rose.” He genuinely seems surprised, and I can’t resist attempting to gauge his age as well.

His skin is weathered by more than just scars. Hard, long years. Brutal years. If someone put a gun to my head, I’d peg him to be around his mid-thirties, the same age as Robert.

He never reveals the number himself, however. Instead, he cocks his head, observing me even more closely. “I suppose it makes sense now,” he says, almost to himself. “You must look like her. Perhaps he wanted to finish the job.”

“W-who?” I don’t know where the courage to voice the question comes from. “Who wanted to buy me?”

“A dangerous man, Little Rose,” he admits. “Whoever told you that story about your mother lied to you. Or you’ve been lying tome—”

“No,” I say, risking his anger to cut him off. “I’d never lie about her.”

---