Page 38 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

He’s still touching me. Rough fingers swipe at my cheek—to test the bandage, I realize. Next, he grabs my ankle to ensure the one on my foot is intact. There’s a rehearsed familiarity to the motions. Almost as if…

“You cleaned me.” My voice echoes off the basin of the tub, hollow with shock. “Youbandaged me—”

“But maybe Ishouldkill you,” he counters, ignoring my accusation. All at once, his hands fall away. “Is that what your fucking Winthorp would do?Youcompared me to the bastard, so tell me how this ends. With you dead?”

I shake my head without bothering to reply out loud. Robert would never kill me. That would require that he give me something I actually want.

An escape.

“Then what?” Mischa wonders coldly. His fingers return to rake through my hair, softer than before. Alarm bells go off in my mind. Once again, he proves to be unpredictable. Wild. Dangerous. “You comparedmetohim,” he reminds me, hissing into my ear. “So fucking tell me what I’m supposed to do next.”

I tremble at the implications of such a question. What would Robert do? He’d play a game, of course. One of his favorites.

“He’d kiss me,” I hear myself croak, naming the first stage of any twisted session. “He’d touch me. Make me beg…”

“Beg him for what?” His voice is too raw, scorching my tender skin. Anger on him is like wildfire; within the blink of an eye, it’s too violent to be contained. “Don’t feign you’re mute now.” He cups my sore throat from behind, sliding his fingers along my windpipe in a chilling caress, daring me to lie to him. “He’d make you beg him for what?”

The memories chase me. Haunt me.

“To stop…”

“He’d hurt you?”

My nerves cringe at the genuine curiosity in his tone as he hooks a hand beneath my waist and flips me onto my back with my head propped against the rim of the tub.

But I don’t scream.

He’s too heavy. His eyes are empty, the gaze of a monster. But his mouth…

Crushed to mine with no warning, there’s no comparison. Robert bites, and licks, and takes. But Mischa just claims. His lips are too soft. Not possessive and unfeeling—butfire. There’s no teasing buildup. No savoring of my fear. He slides his tongue between my lips and just steals what he wants. With hard, searing thrusts. With heat. With more fire.

He destroys every instinct before I can remember what emotions to salvage. In the resulting chaos, all I can do is feel. Everything.

“He touched you?” Mischa growls against my parted lips, remembering the second stage.

“Y-yes...”

With deft motions, he unhooks the back of my dress. His fingers still against my spine as if waiting for me to react. Scream. Run. When I don’t, his fingers drift lower and my body quakes at the feel of his warm flesh molded over solid muscle.

“And then,” he snarls into my open mouth. “What?”

I beg. Always. Without fail. Robert never heeds my pleas, but they come anyway. It’s our tradition. My torment. His game.

My lips flutter, ready to play, but Misha takes his role of my husband too seriously. His hand descends between us, unzipping his pants to an erection straining against his boxers. His fingers capture mine, forcing me beneath the waistband to feel him for myself. Hot. Silken. Steel.

“Go on,” he goads, bucking into my fist, testing my grip. “Beg.”

Stop.He’s bigger than Robert. He’ll hurt me more than my husband ever could. I know it. I feel it. I…

Breathe, Ellen. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe!

“Come on.” Frowning, Mischa meets my gaze directly, still throbbing against my fingers. “Play your part, Little One,” he commands. “Beg me to stop.”

My lips flutter, but when I say nothing, he laughs, throwing his head back.

“You can’t take me. Admit it. I am nothing like him. I’ll fuckingbreakyou.”

It’s a promise. One that adds a new level of danger I’ve never felt before to the game. No one has ever takenanythingfrom Robert Winthorp.

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