Page 19 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

“Get in,” Mischa snarls.

I have only enough sense to throw my hand out in front of me before he shoves me forward. My fingers catch the edge of something firm. Metal. It’s curved with space underneath for me to duck. My knees hit a ledge, which forces me to climb onto it. The seat of a vehicle, I think. The suspicion is proven correct when Mischa climbs in beside me, his bulk backing me against what must be the opposite door. Only now does he let me go, taking his hand off my face.

I’m not foolish enough to look up. Instead, I use stealth to discern our surroundings. Supple leather gives way beneath me—I was right. We’re in the back seat of a van. The windows are tinted, letting in little light, and only one man occupies the front seat: the driver. I can’t see his face, but he’s wearing the same faded fatigues the other men are.

“Drive,” Mischa tells him, tapping his fist against the window on his end. “Take up the rear. I’ll keep watch.”

He leans back against the seat, propping his arm along the headrest so that his reach extends beyond my neck. The tightness to his jaw betrays the otherwise casual motion. He’s done it for my benefit, to remind me just how quickly he could regain control should I run.

Aware of him watching, I place my hands on my lap and face ahead. My heel stings. There’s no doubt that I’ve tracked blood all over the floor of the vehicle. I do my best to keep the wound from contacting anything else, but the best way requires that I cross my legs with the injured heel dangling in the air. The motion puts my foot in his domain, close enough to his knee that I’ll brush it with one good bump in the road.

Which is worse?

“Do not think that Vanya’s pity can save you,” Mischa says as if to warn me from even an accidental touch. “I have humored him this long. Besides, it’s not you in particular that he cares for. He does it out of grief.”

I can’t help but wonder if he said that more to himself than to me. When my gaze flickers in his direction, I find him frowning and my heart beats faster in foreboding. A man like him secretes anger like sweat. It slicks his skin and floods the car, drowning me beneath the scent.

Suffocating me.

“You haven’t asked why,” he remarks after seconds pass in silence. Something battles with the malice in his tone, catching me off guard. Approval? “Perhaps your master trained you, after all.”

I shudder at the mention of Robert. My master? He has a different word for it. I am only allowed to call him one thing, apart from his name. My thoughts shy from recalling it and I turn to the window, desperate to piece together the scenery.

Breathe, Ellen…

A hand seizes my jaw before I can make out anything more than shadow, wrenching me around to face the man beside me.

“You remind him of his daughter,” he tells me. His gaze traps mine, probing deeply without mercy. He sees the way I flinch and interest flickers across his otherwise callous expression. “She was murdered years ago. Butchered. I think you know by who—”

“Sir?” the driver calls as he wrenches on the wheel. Too fast.

The sudden shift throws me in Mischa’s direction. In disgust, he shoves me off, twisting around to gaze from the back windshield. Whatever he sees makes his face fall flat.

“Shit. Get down!”

There’s an eerie moment when all I hear is the roar of an engine. My gaze meets a pair of amber irises staring back, and for the first time, something other than hate is reflected in them.

Fear.

“Get down!”

Wham! Everything happens too quickly to decipher. Clanging noise. Shattering glass. Darkness. Pain.

A thunderous roar rattles through my being, and then…slam!Air wheezes from my chest—I’m being crushed. Whatever it is pins me into the sliver of space between the front and back seats. Metal?

No…abody.

A guttural voice snarls something into my ear, but only snippets register. “Down—stay down!”

Sharp noises cut the air.Gunshots. They echo in tandem. At least twenty right after the other.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Then nothing.

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