Page 15 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

My heart races at the question. Common sense warns me to lie. But…kindness is such a rare gift, deserving of the same in return. Even Robert hasn’t broken me beyond that point.

“My name is—”

“Here you are.”

My body reacts to the dangerously soft voice before I turn and see him there, towering in the doorway. Mischa.

Slowly, his eyes flicker from me to Vanya, but the old man doesn’t draw half of the rage building in his gaze. “I told you to bring her tome,” he says. Strained politeness keeps his voice above that unsettling growl.

My brain scrambles to place it. Respect?

“You did,” Vanya says, nodding in deference, but there’s nothing at all submissive about his posture. He snatches the cup from my grip and refills it with water from the still open fridge. When he places it in my grasp, Mischa’s irises darken, honing in on my throat and the black robe drawn tight around me.

“Bring her,” he snarls, no longer sounding as composed as he did before. “Now.”

“When she finishes,” Vanya says calmly. To me, he crooks his fingers in the universal symbol for hurry up.

“Vanya—”

“She’ll be better able to withstand your methods on a full stomach, don’t you think?” It’s not so much a suggestion as it is an insinuation of something.

Whatever it is makes the younger man flinch. “Are you challenging me, Ivan?”

My throat contracts at the lethality of those words. How he says them.Challenge.As if it’s the ultimate crime.

“No.” Beside me, Vanya stiffens, lowering his head. “Of course not,Pakhan.”

“Good.” Two steps bring Mischa closer. Heavy, wide steps that rattle the peeling tiled floor. “Then she canfinish.”

It’s a dare. One that haunts me as my gaze reconnects with Vanya’s. He motions for me to drink and I robotically gulp from the glass. The moment I’ve drained it, Mischa advances. From the corner of my eye, I see him reach for me, but the ferocity of his grip catches me off guard. I stagger into the counter, knocking an unseen array of objects to the floor. The glass slips from my grasp. Shatters. Something pierces the sole of my right foot in a barrage of searing pain, but I’m dragged forward without mercy. Back down the hallway. Through the room with the cage. Beyond that. Stairs. Hallway. Silence. Room.

Shoved forward, I struggle to make out my surroundings. A bed is paces away, near a rickety dresser positioned by the window. Above, a naked light bulb casts pale light and flickering shadows. Behind me, the door closes.

And my tormentor advances as though he has all the time in the world to play this next phase of the game. Without warning, he runs his hand along my shoulder. His touch burns beneath the thin fabric of the robe and I jump back, preparing to withstand any assault. Anything but the callous swipe that dislodges the garment from behind.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he wonders as I stiffen.

I have: the “truth” in exchange for a quick death. How utterly used to violence he must be to think that those are tempting odds. And, to him, theyare.There’s no mistaking that.

He will kill you quickly, Vanya insisted as if that was somehow the preferable outcome to this nightmare.

Maybe it is.

Rather than speak, I say nothing. It’s stifling in this room. The window is nailed shut, preventing any circulation. Sweat springs beneath my armpits and along my neck. He’s perspiring as well. The stench of salt seeps from his pores, but it’s not potent enough to reek.

I’m too busy trying to place his position that I miss the next move he makes. A shove to my hip nudges me closer to the bed. The mattress brushes my knees. The sheets covering it are bunched in the middle as if slept in. More salt wafts from them, and something else… Male. Musk. Has he slept here?

“I warned you once never to ignore me,” he hisses against the nape of my neck before shoving me once again.

I manage to throw my hands out at the last second, catching my fall. The position gives me enough leverage to twist onto my side so that I can face him. It’s a habit I learned from Robert. Watching him is always my only defense. Only then could I guess his next move.

But this man is unreadable. When he snatches at my hip, I don’t fight, letting him wrench the fabric of my robe loose. My only action is to flex my shoulders so that he can remove the garment without tearing it—out of courtesy to Vanya for sparing it. Within seconds, the black satin is in his fist before being tossed onto the floor.

Again, he eyes my body with unabashed interest—but I can’t help but notice that his gaze doesn’t assault the places where I’m used to being ogled. He eyes my stomach, not my breasts. My arms. Thighs. I know why. I can feel the marks throbbing after the rough treatment of the past twenty-four hours, but I don’t dare focus on them.

I watch him instead. His wounds are much older than mine, scarred over and silvery with age. Battle scars. Gunshot wounds. He reminds me of the target in the fields where Robert likes to practice shooting. Dinged and marred but still unbroken.

“What’s your name?” he asks, flicking the words at me one by one. Language to him is a projectile, used to inflict damage.

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