Page 51 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

It’s a word that I suspect would mean nothing to another man. A better man.

For him? It’s a trigger.Boom!I’ve blown the lid off his rage without even trying.

“Mercy?” He’s on his knees before I can blink, reaching into the tub for my throat, clenching the already sore flesh. “You think that you can demandmercyfrom me? Do you even know what that word fucking means?”

“N-not demand,” I clarify, wheezing in my effort to get the words past his tightening grip. “Asking…for it.”

Begging.

He tilts my head back while simultaneously leaning closer, heedless of the tremor that quakes through me in response. With that cold, piercing gaze as his weapon, he slices me open and searches beneath my skin, hunting down any hint of deceit. Finally, he draws back.

“I don’t barter withdeadwomen,” he spits. “Or whores. Or the wives of my fucking enemies—”

“What about a human being?” I wonder softly, marveling at the fact that I’ve challenged him at all.

His fingers tighten in a silent threat, but I can still breathe. For now.

“Someone who has nothing left to lose?”

He chuckles at that and cocks his head to view me from a different angle. “And let’s say I don’t sell you. Am I supposed to care for two fucking ‘human beings’ out of the kindness of my soul, Little One? At least until I slit your throat?”

Two?

He laughs again as my brow furrows. “How quickly you fucking forget,” he scolds. “The girl you protected. Nicolai’s. I can’t let her go. She already knows too much.”

No.My veins run cold with ice. “You wouldn’t…”

“I will. I can’t keep her here out of charity. So, if I don’t sellyou, are you willing to have her be put in your place?”

No.I shake my head, feeling the ridge of his knuckles with every frantic movement. When he lets me go, I stare down at the water and fight to keep the fire building behind my eyes at bay. There’s no use in admitting my defeat out loud.

Regardless, rare anger bubbles beneath my skin. Only the most subhuman of men use child pawns in their wicked games.

“There’s something you want to say, Little One.” Mischa runs his thumb along the bruised side of my face in a terrifying display of encouragement. “Go on. Say it.”

My lips unlock painfully. “For someone who claims to hate Robert Sr. so much…you seem determined to emulate him.”

I expect a blow as punishment. My shoulders tense in a futile effort to brace for its impact. Instead, Mischa laughs again. He growls. Aware of his shadow flickering over the floor, I infer that he moves to a corner of the bathroom and snatches something from the wall, which he then throws at me. It bounces off my head and lands partially in the water. A white towel.

“Get out,” he tells me, his voice strained with that dangerous calm I’ve come to fear.

After releasing the stopper to allow the water to drain, I climb from the tub, draping the towel around my shoulders. Left with no choice, I follow Mischa into the main bedroom. Without a glance spared in my direction, he enters the hallway. Still wet, with only the towel to cover myself with, I’m forced to weigh embarrassment with obedience.

With Robert, my choice would have been clear.

Now? I turn my gaze to the wooden dresser and wrench a drawer open without giving myself the time to weigh the consequences. The first shirt my fingers fall over is black, finely tailored. Letting the towel drop to my feet, I scramble into the dress shirt, surprised to find that it reaches past my knees.

As my damp hair falls over my shoulders, I creep to the doorway and find Mischa waiting paces away. His eyes sweep over me once and then narrow.

“I suggest you remember those accounts, Little One,” he warns before turning on his heel and marching down the corridor. “Come. It’s time to prove just how valuable you are to your husband.”

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