Page 37 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

“Is she in here?” another man demanded, his voice thick. Guttural. He talked as strangely as the boy did, betraying a heavy accent. “Well, is she?”

“I don’t know,” the younger man replied as I inhaled raggedly, obeying his command.Breathe. Breathe. Breathe!“But we should leave. Now. Before they return.”

They? Robert and his father. There was a gala that night. That’s why Robert was wearing a suit earlier that day. It was his first time attending the grown-up parties.

“Leave?” the older man hissed. My stomach churned as thuds resonated through the floor: footsteps inching farther into the room. “You don’t make the shots, boy. Check. She has to be here.”

“I’ve looked.” Lighter footfalls drift toward the opposite end of the room. “She’s not here. We should be looking for Anna—”

“We are,” the older man insisted, his tone harsh. “But I will not let this insult stand. I don’t care if she’s just a child. The little whelp will pay for her father’s sins—”

“Did you hear that?” the younger boy interjected. “Someone’s coming. We need to move!”

Silently, they crept back into the hall, but I couldn’t move. Not even when my bladder protested and warm liquid dripped down my legs. Not even when a soft, small hand slipped beneath the mattress runner and brushed my wrist.

“Ellen?” Briar’s face appeared through the darkness next, inches from mine. “Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes wide.

Only later would I learn that she heard the boy coming way before I had. Thinking quickly, she’d hidden in the closet.

Leaving me behind…

“Drink.” Something cool brushes my cheek. “Drink!”

I blink as the rim of a water bottle presses against my mouth, but I shake my head. I doubt I’ll be able to swallow ever again.

“No.” For whatever reason, Mischa won’t let me turn away. He grips my chin and grinds the rim of the bottle against my teeth. “Fuckingdrink.”

I cringe with the first sip, surprised when it goes down with less pain than expected. Before I know it, I’ve drained the entire bottle.

And all that’s left to do is face the wrath awaiting me.

“It was you,” I croak, watching Mischa scowl at the confession from the corner of my eye. His gaze darts toward the sink as if counting the packets to ensure I really did expel them all.

But I’m not delirious. For the first time in so long, I see everything clearly.

“You were the boy,” I add. “In Winthorp Manor. I saw you. You thought I was Briar.”

Yet he savedme.

His eyes widen and narrow in quick succession. Remembering? Or suppressing. Gritting his teeth, he shakes his head, dismissing the accusation. “You dumb bitch,” he hisses, tightening his grip on my shoulder. “I should kill you—”

“Better me than a child,” I whisper. Vanya was right. Mischa wasn’t always this way—but that knowledge only makes his fall all the more tragic. “I’d rather die than let you use her.”

“Oh?” he laughs. “You stupid bitch. I wouldn’t have made herswallowit.”

Too breathless to speak, I stiffen at the confession, my eyes wide. There’s a grim honesty to his words. Even I can’t deny it.

“I know this fucking hotel,” he adds. “All she had to do was hide them in the dress—”

“You’d still…use…a child as a pawn.” It hurts to speak. My voice grates over the air, pathetic and broken.

He hears me regardless. Radiating hatred, his body cages mine from behind, trapping me against the tub and tile flooring. There’s nowhere to run—not that I have the energy. I just press my bruised cheek against the rim and wait.

If silence alone were as far as his cruelty went, I could survive it. But no. His touch creeps along my injured cheek, aggravating the sore flesh.

I have no choice but to beg. “If you’re going to kill me, just kill me.”

“Kill you?” He growls out a terrifying imitation of a laugh against my shoulder. “I should. It would be fucking easier than keeping you alive.”

---