Page 62 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

“I suggest we end this meeting here,Pakhan,” Sergei says, inclining his head respectfully. “This is more than enough excitement for one day.” He eyes me once more before turning and marshaling the men loyal to him into action.

“Dismissed,” Mischa says before exiting the room pulling me along after him.

My heart hammers a painful rhythm as he hauls me out into the hallway and through the rest of the house. He takes me directly to his room at the top of the stairs, closing the door behind us.

“You gambled big for your first time, Little One,” he says, his voice low and grated. Here, the tension he wore like a cloak downstairs gradually reveals the exhaustion lurking underneath. His shoulders relax from their tense line, his jaw less hard.

The subtle changes aren’t enough to humanize him though. Not even a little. But they keep my surging pulse at bay. I can breathe, at least.

“As promised, I’ll uphold my end.” He faces me, half in shadow. “Ask something of me, Little One. What do you want?”

It’s a dare more than it is a legitimate question. He’s curious. It’s almost enough to counteract his earlier rage. Almost.

“I won’t release you, of course,” he adds. “But…tell me.”

It should be impossible to settle on one thing. He won’t uphold any request—I know that. Yet my mind hovers over a million different things I could ask. Tempting things. Irrelevant things. Before those thoughts can even take hold, reality shoves its way to the forefront.

“The girl,” I say, picturing the waif from Nicolai’s. “Don’t sell her, regardless of what you do to me…”

I trail off as Mischa laughs. He throws his head back, choking out the vicious, hollow sound. It’s still echoing on the air as he fixes the brunt of his gaze in my direction.

“You really thought I’d go so far as to sell achild, Little One?” Another laugh escapes him, sharper than the first. “The girl didn’t ask for this. I have no reason to sell her. But you…” He approaches me, running his hand along my injured cheek once he’s close enough. “Youhave a wealth of sins to atone for, Robert Winthorp’s wife. Your fate is far beyond any mercy I could spare.”

It’s surprisingly easy to accept my death sentence when it’s uttered so finally. Mischa doesn’t draw out his torture in games and riddles. He murmurs the truth into my ear and watches me tremble.

“What else?” His thumb nudges my chin, tilting it upright. “Ask.”

There’s more than a mocking curiosity tainting his tone now. There’s impatience. Desperation? He wants something to take his mind off of what happened below, I suspect.

Licking my lips, I spit out the first thing to come to mind. “Tell me. Was it really you? At Winthorp manor that night?”

“I won’t humor a fantasy,” Mischa warns. “Ask me something else.”

“I…” I rack my brain and settle on a pathetic whim. “Can you call me by my name?” The plea sounds so breathless when voiced out loud. My name. Not bitch, or whore, or Little One, or Robert Winthorp’s wife.

“Ellen?” Mischa wonders, drawing hard on the syllables. “What does your husband call you?”

I have to force the name off the tip of my tongue. “Elle.”

“Elle,” he echoes, tasting it. “Is that what you wantmeto call you?”

“No.” I cringe at the thought. Robert’s word, here. No. Even Mischa’s brutality couldn’t erase the dark memories clinging to it.

“Then what?” He’s even closer, his breath scalding my tender cheek.

“I… My mother called me Rose.” I didn’t mean to tell him that. A part of me despairs at having let something so sacred slip. “B-but you don’t have to—”

“Rose.” His nostrils flare as if inhaling the name itself. “Is that what you want me to call you?”

No,a part of me whispers. Rose is beautiful. Rose is untouched. Rose is one of the few parts of me Robert never desecrated.

“FineRose,” Mischa says after nearly a minute goes by without a response. He lets his hand fall but doesn’t back away. If anything, his heat soaks through the fabric of my dress, assaulting me just as brutally as his knife did. “Now, I want something from you.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Y-yes?”

“Your husband. Do you love him?”

“Yes.” My answer is more instinctive than anything. Loving Robert is akin to how I feel most people would categorize worshiping their God—at least the one the Winthorp’s chosen priest described.

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