Page 28 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Someone who can do the job,a part of me whispers.

“Where can I have her?” Boris wonders as Xavier begins to reorganize his stacks of bills. Maybe focusing on him is the only way I can keep any sanity. His hands. How they shake…

“Upstairs,” Mischa commands, his voice faint and distorted.

Blood rushes through my ears, counting the seconds that tick by. One heartbeat. Another. There’s no time to think. Just survive.

Breathe, Ellen. Move, Ellen!

“W-wait!” I stagger forward, stupidly grasping Mischa’s forearm.

His reaction is near instantaneous.Wham! I’m on my knees, enthralled by a million stars bouncing across my vision. They sparkle as my fingers clutch the right side of my face. It’s numb. I taste blood. My ears ring.

“Take her upstairs,” Mischa snarls. “Get her the fuck out of my sight—”

“No!” I move on instinct, following the sound of his voice with my fingers. They brush scalding muscle hidden beneath harsh material. His hip? “Wait!” The world swims around me as I stagger to my feet. Speaking is suddenly an ordeal. My jaw won’t move the way it should, and every attempt sounds thick. Muted. “Wait. I can be of more use to you than—”

A hand clenches my throat, shoving me back against the wall. Mischa’s. He pins me there without mercy, his face a terrifying snarl. There’s no life in his eyes. Just darkness. Rage. Pain. “You’re lucky I haven’t killed you—”

“I can be more useful to you than as a whore,” I rasp, fighting against my own tongue to sound intelligible. Human. He’s reduced me to a creature that spits blood when she talks. My vision is blurred in my right eye. He’s a smeared specter of light and shadow, but fear is a funny thing. It turns out to be no match against a deeper, more ingrained instinct: survival. “I can help you—”

“Shut up!” His fingers tighten, cutting off all air.

There’s only enough left in my throat for two words. “He’s…cheated…”

Confusion. It flits across his face so quickly that I almost miss it. But then his grip loosens and I don’t wait for him to change his mind.

“He’s cheated you,” I croak, jerking my chin toward the table. “There’s something wrong with the money—”

“Bitch.” Mischa laughs, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “You have permission to use force with her,” he tells Boris from over his shoulder. “This whore has a smart little mouth.”

“Just don’t damage it too much,” Boris replies. “You hit her again and I’ll knock a grand off my price—”

“Listen to me!”

Shock registers across my captor’s face, which is how I realize I screamed at him. Pleaded.Listen!

I’ve never said that to anyone. There was no use before. Ellen Winthorp was either a doll on display or a secret to be hidden. She had nothing to say and even fewer people who might care to hear it.

He has no choice but to listen to me now.

“I saw him,” I blurt, forcing out the words as quickly as I can. “The bills. Ask him to weigh them—”

“Enough!” Mischa snarls. “I suggest you shut the fuck up—”

“Ask him to weigh the damn money!” I’m panting with the effort it takes to speak. My chest hurts. My face is a conflicting mixture of searing fire and throbbing ice. My eye must be swelling. It’s impossible to keep it open, which gives me only a fraction of my normal field of vision to gauge his reaction from. By his side, his hand clenches into a fist and I stiffen in anticipation of the next blow. “Please—”

“Xavier,” he snarls to the man at the table. “Do you have a different scale?”

The man fidgets, tugging on the collar of his suit. “Of course. Why?”

Mischa’s eyes narrow into slivers. “Take it out.”

When he turns, he drags me by my hair and shoves me against the table, rattling the bills stacked neatly there. “Show me.”

Xavier recoils as my blood speckles the pristine rows of dollar bills. “What in God’s name?”

Mischa doesn’t answer him. He speaks only to me, twisting his fingers painfully through my hair. “Show me.”

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