Page 56 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Mischa says something else, snapping his fingers when I don’t answer. Or at least it appears he does. I hear nothing. Just deep, masculine groans smothered on the air, paired with the burning humiliation of being used.

“Hey—”

I violently cringe from the hand that brushes my cheek. Beneath me, the chair slides against the wood, driven by the sudden shift in my weight. My eyes blink rapidly, but I’m not in Robert’s room. And the man before me, he’s…

Terrifying. I’ve never seen that kind of rage reflected on the face of a human being. It’s raw. Animalistic.

It’s…not directed atme.

“No,” he snarls, gritting the word between his teeth. Deliberately, his hand comes for me again, cupping the side of my throat. “You don’t flinch from me.” Each finger tenses against my windpipe, but not to choke for once. To feel. To reinforce his presence.You don’t flinch.

And I don’t. Robert relished making me squirm. He chuckled whenever I jumped at the mercy of his fingertips. But I’d give anything to emulate that reaction now. Anything.

When Mischa captures my chin in his palm, I don’t recoil. I shiver. It’s a subtle difference that I feel down to the very nerves running beneath my skin. Fear is one thing. Anticipation is something different entirely. It’s harder to stomach. Harder to reconcile with the rules I’ve lived by for so long.

“Tell me,” he commands, urging me to face him. “What… Did he hurt you?”

He didn’t mean to phrase the question so heatedly. His eyes narrow, directing that anger inward for a rare split second.

But he doesn’t move, and his fingers never withdraw.

“He…he met with Robert regularly for a short time,” I admit, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice.

Mischa blinks, cold and collected once again. “How regularly?”

“Weekly at some points,” I admit. “Every few months at others. It changed.”

“That son of a bitch.” He turns away from me, and I’m ignored in favor of the man whose face I can still clearly recall.

Black eyes. Dark curls. Younger than most. He smelled like cigar smoke and thick cologne I’d still taste on my tongue for weeks. Before the worst of the memories can descend, however, movement catches the corner of my eye. Mischa, reaching into his pocket. For his knife? No, a cell phone, I realize as my heart creeps to my throat. He dials a number quickly and brings it to his ear.

“This is Stepanov,” he says into the receiver. “I’m calling a fucking meeting. Pecavi. Midnight. Bring them all.” He hangs up, turning his attention back to me. “You want to earn another concession from me, Little One?” he wonders. But there is no mistake: it’s not a question, and he doesn’t offer kindness. “Then I’m going to need you to put that memory of yours to good fucking use. Or,” he adds, sweeping his gaze along my body, “I’ll utilize your pretty head in another way. Understood?”

I can only nod.

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