Page 47 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

My grip falters as he grows slicker with sweat. I have to rely on him more to support my weight. My knees shake, threatening to pitch me over at any second. I’m too far gone to give a damn about anything but this. His teeth graze my throat without a shred of gentleness or mercy. Just naked, scorching lust. The slower my hand moves, the more his cock twitches impatiently, until finally he bucks out of my grip altogether.

“I see it now,” he tells me. “Why he wants you back so fucking badly.”

I whimper as his teeth seize a chunk of skin, grinding it between them. My eyelids flutter, my spine curling and driving my hips against him. Nothing describes how it feels when his crown grazes my entrance. Nothing.

I’m still gasping at the feeling when his hand finds mine, guiding me to the sliver of space between us. He forces my fingers to curl and places them along the ridge of his shaft. Then he arches his hips, wedging the tip of himself between my folds. “Put me inside you.”

My eyes widen. Robert would never issue such an insane request. He’d never give me that kind of control. Over him. Over myself.

But it’s not surrender Mischa offers as he allows me to steer him inside me inch by painful inch. It’s possession in an entirely different way than domination. It’s madness.

It’s fucking unbearable.

I can’t stifle my moan. It trickles out of me, high and tight as my head falls back against his shoulder. Once again, he sinks in easily. Too deep. Too real. Desperate, my nails scrape at his hips, hunting for stability. Just when I find a position that works, he lunges, shoving me onto my hands and knees.

The mattress trembles as he rears back and slips from my grasping channel. Before I can even catch my breath, he slides back in.

And then he fucks me.

I forget everything but how to breathe. I forget my own fucking name. The fact that he has no soul. His cruelty.

Each drive of his hips pushes a tiny bit ofmysoul out. Through my pores. My throat.

Robert made a boast once.I’ll fuck your brains out.

He never came close.

Mischadrives my entire being out of my body, forcing himself into the empty spaces left behind. He’s primal, inching our bodies closer to the headboard with every thrust. Closer. Close. My fingers are braced against the wood before I know it, and his hands tighten over my hips, pulling me into him with every brutal claiming.

I’m painfully aware of the fact thatheis the one inside me. The one demolishing me. No one else. For once, my thoughts only contain a single name and it spills from my lips like a prayer. “Mischa—”

Blood rushes to my head as his fingers find my neck and squeeze. He shoves me down, pinning my face to the mattress. “Again,” he grates out between pants. “Say…again.”

I do and the final thrust undoes him. He comes with an intensity that catches me off guard. Molten energy spills into me without a valve to slow the overwhelming pace. The last spurt has barely entered me before he draws back, letting me collapse breathless against the twisted sheets.

I hear the hiss of a zipper being redone. Then footsteps retreat from the room. A door opens.

Slams.

And I’m alone.

I don’t wait for shame to descend this time. In the aftermath of the chaos, I manage to scrape together what’s left of my pride and gingerly stagger to my feet. The room is not only spacious, but grander than I first realized. The furniture is old but well maintained: polished oak. Just where are we?

The light fixtures are silver, made of delicate designs that resemble vines twisting from the paneled walls. It’s a style that reminds me of Winthorp Manor’s—at least before Briar convinced her father to “update” some of the interior rooms.

The smell here is the same. Old. Prestigious. Unwelcoming.

For all its grandeur, this room could be no less personal than the one in the hotel, but subtle clues lurk in plain sight. The black sheets are of the highest quality. A polished dresser contains a neat array of men’s clothing. Not gray fatigues, but shirts and slacks. There’s an en suite bathroom grander than the one attached to my room in Robert’s suite. The floors are gleaming obsidian marble. There’re a sunken tub and a separate enclosed shower. Granite countertops support a double sink, while the polished mirror above them displays a reflection that appears hideously out of place among the finery.

The shadow of Robert’s wife stares back at me with hollow eyes. She seems so lost. So broken. Her healing wounds look even worse in the soft glow cast by the ornate light fixtures that illuminate the room.

Mischa’s brand screams against my pale skin. My right eye is purple, partially shut beneath swelling. My neck is reddened, my body a collage of scars and bruises both new and old. It should be hard to discern what marks were left by Robert and those inflicted by Mischa. Hard, but not impossible. Robert is methodical in his madness. He placed his wounds strategically, with thought and care put into every scrape, scratch, and cut.

Mischa is reckless. My body isn’t his canvas. It’s his plaything.

Which is worse? To be used slowly and sparingly? Or to be chewed and swallowed alive?

My eyes water in my reflection and I turn away, unwilling to learn the answer.

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