Page 50 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

“Don’t pretend!”

I jump as his fingers slam against the rim of the tub, curling around the polished edge.

“You think I don’t fucking know what game you’re playing? That I can’t smell it on you?” His nostrils flare as if to steal my scent. “Cunning. You feign your innocent act pretty well, but I’ve had more skilled women try to seduce me. Do you really think sex and false memories will make me pity you?” When I don’t speak, he grabs my chin, grinding his fingers into my jawline. “Fucking say it. Admit why you let me…”

Fuck you.

Is there a reason? One springs to my lips of its own accord. “I-I deserve it.” I don’t know where the words came from. Why they hurt so much to say. Why a part of me feels like they were ripped from some vital part of my soul even Robert couldn’t reach.

If being around him has taught me one thing, it’s that all sinners receive their punishment eventually.

“Deserve?” Surprise flickers across Mischa’s gaze for a split second before he lets me go and rises to his feet. “Trust a Winthorp to use sex as a punishment,” he mutters, laughing coldly at the irony. Without warning, he whirls on his heel and slams his fist against the wall with a thud that resonates through my entire being.

Tense with anticipation, I wait for him to leave. To storm off.

Instead…

“Turn off the water.”

My pulse surges as I lunge for the faucet and switch it off.

“We’re not done,” he says, turning the full brunt of his gaze on me once again. My mind plays a dangerous game of roulette as I try to guess where his next question might lead. “You said your husband made you keep numbers for him…”

“Y-yes.”

“And you remember them? Don’t waste your breath lying to me again.”

I just nod, too exhausted to keep up the charade. Robert’s secrets are my last to tell. “Every amount,” I admit with a heavy sigh. “Every name.”

It was the final act of our game in a poetic sense. Robert gave me enough to destroy him. Then he locked me up tight and dared me to leave him. Was it his father’s idea to use me in his safety net for Briar? Had he let his son in on such a plan?

I’m not sure. The Winthorps have their own inner language of tricks and power grabs played between them, with a convoluted tally no outsider could fathom.

“You want me to give his accounts to you.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t bother denying it. “And if I do…will you still sell me?”

There’s no playing coy with him. He frowns at my attempt, his eyes flashing midnight. “And why shouldn’t I? I’ve experienced what you have to offer,” he reminds me, making my cheeks flame. “Forget the five thousand Boris offered. I could easily charge double.”

Somehow, I manage to ignore the ferocity of the threat—no, his promise. I run my tongue over my cracked lips, tasting dried blood. “Do you really think you can beat the numbers out of me?”

It’s not a taunt as much as it is a genuine question. Can this man best Robert Winthorp at a game of his creation? Does he really have what it takes to rip the truth from my head?

Of course he does.

But does he have the time?

Precious minutes pass at his discretion, but the truth is clear: He doesn’t.

“I’ll give you all I know,” I propose. “All I ask is that you don’t sell me as a whore. I won’t try to run. I won’t resist. I won’t fight when you…”

When you kill me.

“I swear,” I continue. “All I ask is that you do with me what you want. I don’t care. But don’t barter my body.”

It’s a pathetic, simple request. Or so I believe, until I make the mistake of looking into his eyes and witness the darkness brewing there. The open hatred, so raw and consuming that it steals my breath away.

“You think that you can make demands of me?” His voice breaks into two bone-chilling notes. One low and hollow, the other guttural. Animalistic.

“N-no,” I stammer before he can finish taking a step in my direction. “I only want…your mercy.”

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