Page 58 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

As if aware of the desire, he chuckles again. “I know what I want from you. Fail me tonight and it’s mine.”

“And if I don’t fail?” I’m not sure where the challenge came from. Why I even care. Men like him and Robert play their games with only one winner in mind.

Rather than reinforce that reality out loud, Mischa tilts his mouth in a wicked angle. “I’ll humor you, Little One.”

As he turns his back to me, I’m painfully aware that we’re not in his room, but a new domain. This one is smaller, the furniture less ornate, the bed sheets a bloody shade of red. Rather than a dresser, there’s a wardrobe tucked into the corner, which Mischa approaches. Beyond his shoulder, I only make out a swatch of colored fabric before he turns and tosses something onto the bed beside me.

“Put it on.”

My fingers obediently clench the burgundy fabric. It’s a dress. Thin. Small. Something sets it apart from the other skimpy items he gave me before though; it’s finely tailored, comparable to what Briar would wear. This belonged to someone…

“Now,” Mischa snaps.

Suppressing my questions, I draw the gown over my head, surprised by the modest length and plunging neckline.

“Forget Robert Winthorp,” he warns. He runs his fingers through my hair, flicking the strands forward to cover most of my face. “Tonight, you aremine.” He captures my chin in his grip and roughly runs his thumb over the healing wounds on my left cheek. Then he withdraws something from his pocket. Flat. Square. A bandage large enough to cover the worst of the cuts. Satisfied, he draws back, observing me from afar.

“Get some of that sleep you crave, Little One,” he commands, heading for the door. “Tonight, you better be willing to place your bets.”

* * *

Left alone in the strange room, I notice nothing worth examining—at first. It’s slightly smaller than his, with an adjacent bathroom composed of white marble instead of black. The bedsheets feel stiff, unslept in. There are few baubles or mementos on the nightstands and the lone vanity, just like in his room.

The wardrobe is another matter, however. The moment I open the doors, a scent rushes out to greet me. Sweet. Soft. Feminine. It lingers in every piece of clothing I find. Most are elegant gowns like the one Mischa picked for me, but tucked behind them, I find simpler garments. A blouse. A skirt. The style is older than the bright fashions Briar prefers, more modest. They’re far from what Robert would choose for me, as well.

But Mischa? Was his woman this modest creature who preferred emerald silk and soft tweed?

I try to picture her, someone who could pique his interest in ways other than a hateful fuck. Only the haziest image comes to mind. Brown eyes, maybe? Someone taller, perhaps. The doomed Anna-Natalia?

Removing the clothing in question reveals no answers. I don’t find her when I carefully shed my red dress in favor of one from the wardrobe. It fits me, which is the first surprise. The second is how lovingly it’s been preserved. No one has worn them in a very long time, yet the fabric maintains its shape.

What are you doing, Ellen?

My subconscious haunts me as I approach the vanity. I almost don’t recognize the person I find looking back. Her eyes aren’t as empty as I’m used to. Something lurks there. Pain? Or a more dangerous, obscure emotion that would never take root in my husband’s domain?

Curiosity.

Mischa’s woman doesn’t reveal herself, even in the drawers or the neat arrangement of items placed before the round mirror. Pink lipstick. A small vial of perfume. A silver brush. My fingers settle over each item individually, seeking any clue of their previous owner. I don’t find a ghost. Just a strange, impulsive need to drag the brush through my tangled hair and swipe my lips with the lipstick. The perfume is the most dangerous item of all to disturb. I know that even before I spray a hint of it against my wrist, inhaling the feminine scent.

Who was this ghost who smelled of roses?

Trembling with apprehension, I shed the clothing and return it to the wardrobe. Then I redress myself in the red slip, climb onto the bed and wait. Sleep should be a tempting offer without Mischa there to haunt my every moment, but my eyes refuse to close. My heart refuses to still.

Instead, I breathe in shallowly and count the seconds as they pass. I wait, lingering in my monster’s shadow. This room disguises his scent too well and I’m left inhaling a stranger—two of them. One is bloodied and broken, the wife of a distant villain. The other is an enigma, lingering in the home of an even worse creature.

And she didn’t even bother to leave her secrets behind.

* * *

The moment my eyes finally begin to drift shut, Mischa comes for me. I startle to awareness and find him in the doorway, gesturing with a silent wave of his hand for me to follow.

Together, we return to the entryway of the manor, and I sense a drastic change in the atmosphere. Unease. It lingers as he marches through an archway opposite the one toward the dining room. Noises echo, betraying a flurry of unseen activity. Voices. Chaos. Suddenly, a man appears at the end of the hallway.

“There you are.” Vanya approaches, wearing a black collared shirt and pants instead of the gray fatigues. He nods once when he sees me before turning his attention to Mischa. He eyes his leader warily, lowering his voice. “Are you sure about this? On such short notice?”

He’s anxious, but if Mischa feels the same his posture reveals nothing. He’s stoic, his jaw set in a grim line of determination.

“I am done playing the role of mediator,” he says. “It’s time we fucking fight for what we want. Those who refuse to fall in line can grapple with the consequences.”

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