Page 57 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 18

“You claimed your husband never mentioned theMafiyaaround you,” Mischa questions as we advance through the corridor.

My steps are hesitant in his wake. I know enough of him to suspect that he doesn’t divulge information like this willingly. No, his sudden talkativeness hides a more nefarious purpose: the first round of a brand-new game.

Do I want to play?

It’s not like I have a choice.

“No,” I admit cautiously. “He didn’t.”

“Should I enlighten you?”

I swallow hard, weighing the implications of such a suggestion. Does the twisted reason for my fate really matter?

“Ten families,” he explains, making the decision for me, “each one with more wealth and power than your fucking Winthorps. Together, we are united, under the guidance of one leader. In theory…”

A word springs to mind:Pakhan.Him?

“Twenty-four years ago, your husband’s family started a war, Little One. I plan to end it, soon. Once and for all.” His hands flex menacingly at his sides, the knuckles cracking in unison. “So do not make the mistake of assuming that, because you aren’t dead now, I’ve changed my mind. In fact, I want you to tell me something.”

“W-what?” I gather up the nerve to ask after seconds have passed, sensing that’s what he wants: me to take the bait.

He continues past the door to his room and stops near the one beside it instead, heightening the foreboding tension building in my belly. “Think about how you want to die,” Mischa commands as he opens the door.

I falter in the hall as my blood runs cold at the grim suggestion. He isn’t joking.

Rather than demand an answer now, my murderer snatches my wrist and drags me over the threshold of the newer room. He switches a nearby light on, and with my thoughts stalled by terror, he pulls me in close, lowering his mouth near my ear. “So tell me, Ellen Winthorp. Strangulation? No…” He runs the fingers of his free hand along my tender throat and frowns. “You’d like that.”

Would I?My lungs refuse to expand, and the sensation is anything but pleasurable. He could kill me like this easily: smothering my soul through nearness alone.

“What about a knife?” He sweeps his gaze along my chest as if hunting for the right place to strike. Eventually, his eyes settle over my rib cage and narrow thoughtfully. “I could make it slow, Little One.”

His hand falls to his hip, and desperation makes my lips spring apart.

“G-gun,” I rasp, naming Robert’s preferred weapon. Whenever my husband eventually did tire of me, at least I knew for certain his method of choice. He’d dispose of me the same way he dispatched the animals he hunted: one bullet right between the eyes. Simple and clean, he’d say.

Mischa, however, frowns at the suggestion. “Shooting you.” He shrugs as if considering it. Then he shakes his head and dips his fingers into his pocket, retrieving the hidden blade. “You aren’t afraid of guns, Little One,” he deduces musingly. “I’ve seen it. You aren’t afraid of my hands, either. No…but the knife—” He raises the blade, brandishing it in the orange glow of the lamp. “This frightens you. Why?”

Hypnotized by the gleaming metal’s edge, I can’t answer him. Memories flash across my psyche too quickly to suppress:pain, blood, so much blood.

“You Winthorps and your knives.” He brings the blade closer, positioning it toward my throat, and chuckles when I flinch. “This way.” Nodding to himself, he steps back, returning the blade to his pocket. “Sit.”

He gestures to the bed in the center of the room.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, and he stands over me without revealing a hint of what he has planned. I can’t help the hesitant way my eyes trace the waistband of his pants. His hands remain open at his sides, but tension sizzles off him, prickling my skin.

“Are you afraid?” he wonders.

Am I? After a second’s hesitation, I nod.

“You should be,” he agrees, raking a hand along his scalp. “But…youaren’t.Don’t try to deny it. I’ve smelled fear on you before.” His nostrils flare as if chasing that scent. Disappointed, he shrugs in disgust. “No. You are waiting. Watching. You still think you can survive.”

“I don’t.” Once more, I question his assertions. The cunning woman he described sounds nothing like the Ellen Winthorp I know. “I-I—”

“I suppose I could threaten to kill you now, Little One.” He pauses, letting the prospect linger while stoking my anxiety like flames. “But I might as well use you while I can. You said your husband never taught you how to gamble.” His gaze roves over me, and with nothing to disguise my body’s reaction, parts of me tighten. Stiffen. Heat. “I will make you a wager. Apart from your life, think of something you want from me.”

“Huh?” I blink in confusion, unable to disguise the reaction before he notices. Something I want?Mercy.

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