Page 67 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

“Well, she didn’t ‘leave’ Winthorp Manor before you were born,” he says. “She was taken—no, she wasmarked.”

“You mean…” I reach up automatically, feeling my brand sting beneath a layer of gauze. “My mother?” A part of this feud? It seems too fanatical. Too convoluted, even for the Winthorps.

And yet…

For the first time, Mischa doesn’t sport either his mocking smirk or his hostile glare. “It seems I have much to teach you, Little Rose,” he says softly, drawing his hand away. “I am not your only enemy. Not by far. In fact”—he rubs his chin while an unreadable expression shapes his features—“I’ll leave the choice up to you. I won’t bind you or lock you away tonight. You may have full run of the property to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. And I hope you remember what lurks beyond my protection.”

“P-protection?”

It’s the first time he’s phrased my captivity in that way:protection.Mangled by his accent, the word sounds more like doom than salvation.

“Perhaps.” His lip quirks in a dangerous imitation of a smile—or a grimace. “I don’t want to break you just yet. Your death should mean something, Little Rose. I want it to count. I want you to know full well when and why your blood is being spilled. All in good time.”

He pulls away before I can see his expression. I have to discern what little clues I can from his stance. His shoulders harbor tension, his spine rigid. He’s serious. He means it—and something warns me that he’s thinking over my eventual death very carefully.

In a sick way, he almost reminds me of Briar as she planned her wedding, pouring her attention into every tiny detail to distract herself from the overall picture: that she was marrying a man her father had chosen and what dress she would wear or salad she selected didn’t mean a damn thing in the grand scheme.

I don’t know what’s worse, really: being a slave to the whims of others or believing that, even for a second, you can somehow shape the narrative. That you have say. Maybe that’s one small part of Robert I admire. Apart from sex, he never planned a damn thing. He took, and he fucked, and he let the cards lie where they may.

He never left me guessing.

“Has Ivan asked you about your mother?” Mischa asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Lie to him if he does.”

I can’t stop myself from questioning, “Why?”

“Should I tell you?” He cocks his head, glancing at me over his shoulder. “No, I don’t think I should,” he decides. “But I suggest you trust me on this, Little Rose. Vanya is a good man”—he frowns as if annoyed by that fact—“but good men can have their own secrets.”

With that, he heads for the door and shoulders it open, leaving my head spinning and more questions on my tongue. This time, I don’t have the energy to voice them.

“I’ll say this again: Have your run of the property,” Mischa calls from the doorway. “Explore to your heart’s content and remember how many monsters are hungry for you beyond these walls.”

The door slams behind him, rattling the ornate frame surrounding it.

And I just sit here on my captor’s bed, drowning in his scent.

* * *

Explore.The guttural taunt echoes in my thoughts as I take the hottest shower I can stand. Still wet, I creep into the bedroom and venture toward the dresser for a second time.

His clothing is exquisitely tailored, meaning only his shirts have any hope of fitting me. I settle on a white one and roll the sleeves up. The high collar disguises the worst of my neck, at least. My hair, however, is a hopeless cause that I tuck behind my ears, and my face can only be salvaged by wiping away the fresh blood and ignoring the bruising around my right eye.

It’s only as I smooth the hem around my knees that I recognize the routine I’ve fallen into. Pretending. Perfecting.

Robert liked me properly dressed at all times outside of his room. He liked me to smile, and preen, and primp like the prettiest bird, happy in her cage. He’d hiss in disgust at the sight of me now: a bruised and broken plaything, bitten by another beast.

Here, there is no use pretending, and I let my hands fall with a sigh as I heed my captor’s words.

Iexplore.

A part of me half expects to find the door to the room locked as I palm the handle. But, when I twist it slowly, it turns in my grip and I swallow hard. Beyond the door, I don’t spy Mischa lurking in the hall.

In fact, it’s empty, devoid of even his men. I don’t cross a single soul as I creep toward the central corridor. Rather than savor my rare moment of freedom, I remember Mischa’s command.Have your run of the property.

It’s large, for one—overwhelmingly so. High, vaulted ceilings capture every sound made beneath them and throw them back ten times louder. I swear I can even hear my heartbeat mocking me in an unsteady echo. The air feels stale, untouched. As if no one has been here in ages, yet at the same time, everything has been meticulously maintained.

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