Page 27 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 9

The lumpy mattress beneath me reeks of mold, but I can’t resist its comfort for long. When my eyes flutter open to a darkened room, I’m not sure how much time has passed. An hour? Longer? The darkness beyond the window doesn’t reveal any answers. Neither do my sore, aching limbs, which throb as though I never slept at all.

My face, however, feels stiff. Sticky. The wounds have stopped bleeding from what I can tell, but each laceration burns with a new kind of pain. Robert always took care never to scar my face. He’d strike me, but always with an open hand.

What would he think to see me so ruined?

I trace the wounds with my finger, following the jagged contours that form my new title. Fifteen.XV. Does the reality of a new scar sadden me? I can’t tell. Every instinct in my body warns that I won’t live long enough to care.

As if the thought of mortality is their cue, footsteps approach the room.His.I sense him behind the door seconds later, lingering there as if aware of the unbearable anticipation building in my body.

He savors it. How it gets harder to breathe. How my nipples tighten in the still air, knowing that they’ll be under his scrutiny soon. Humiliation is his greatest weapon, and he hones it for what feels like hours on my already frayed nerves.

“Get up.”

I nearly sigh in relief when he finally kicks the door open and switches an overhead light on. Rather than smug, he looks…cold.

“This is my last offer of mercy: Will you tell me what you know of Robert Winthorp?”

I swallow down a lump of dread. “I know nothing.”

“Fine.” An expression distorts his mouth, which causes my heart to sink. Disappointment? “Then get dressed.” He tosses something onto the floor near the bed.

Then I realize the position I’m in. How he finds me: twisted in the sheets on my side, my hair tangled around my shoulders. In sleep, my body forgot all about being a prisoner, seeking out the most comfortable position.

I have to take my time detangling my limbs before I can stand. My cheeks burn from more than just pain and I don’t dare look up to see his reaction.

Instead, I stoop for the pile of fabric nearby. It’s soft. Not a robe, but a thin negligee—though, where Vanya gave me clothing to preserve my modesty, this black creation of lace and silk is meant to entice. Or shame.

“Put it on.”

I do without comment, surprised that the garment reaches past my knees. When Mischa observes me, I don’t blush. Frowning, he turns away, shrugging his shoulder in a silent command for me to follow.

The cramped house is shrouded in darkness. I can hear other men moving throughout, but with Mischa in front of me, my vision is reduced to what little of the floor separates us. We pass through a doorway somewhere on the lower level and then descend a set of wooden stairs hammered into a concrete wall. A basement. My new cell?

There’s little light here, but enough to make out another card table in the corner, where two men are sitting. One of them I recognize. Xavier, the man with the briefcase filled with money. He’s wearing another suit and sitting tall, his hands folded neatly on his lap.

Sitting beside him, a balding stranger is wearing a black dress shirt and slacks. He eyes me boldly, drinking in the battered flesh beneath the hem of my shift. A pink tongue shoots out along his lips and he nods to no one in particular.

“I see what you mean,Pakhan,” he says to Mischa. “They could be twins. But ah!” He tsks between his teeth and sadly shakes his head. “You’ve marred her already.”

“Which shouldn’t keep you from fucking her.”

The words stop me dead in my tracks—not that my captor notices. He approaches the table while I shy back against the wall, pressing myself against the concrete.

“Name your price,” Mischa demands, sending my heart into a frantic race against my thoughts.Fucking her. Fucking her.

The balding man smirks and casts another searing glance in my direction. Then he sighs, turning back to Xavier. “Business first. Tell your accountant here that my goods still sell for their going rate.”

Mischa nods and Xavier lifts yet another briefcase from the floor and places it onto the table. This time, he sets something square, made of gray plastic, down as well. A scale of some kind? When he withdraws a stack of money, he removes the rubber band and sets the bills on the electronic device. He does that with five whole stacks and then looks to Mischa as if for approval.

“Take your goddamn blood money, Boris,” Mischa snaps, but his voice lacks any real passion. When he cocks his head in my direction, my heart sputters. I make out only a sliver of his expression, the rest of his face is bathed in shadow. “Now, name your price.”

For me.

Boris sits back and forms a steeple with his fingers as if thinking over the amount—but I can tell he already has a price in mind. “Just one night with Robert’s bitch? Five thousand.”

Mischa shrugs. “Done.” There’s something in how he says that word that sends alarm shooting down my spine. Distracted. Disinterested. There’s no mocking ownership of his captive. No haggling. Like he’s in a hurry to foist his cruelty onto someone else.

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