Page 68 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Does Mischa really live here?

I don’t find any portraits on the walls to give me a clue. No photographs like the ones covering nearly every inch of the grand halls in Winthorp Manor, either. Robert Sr. took pains to ensure that anyone who entered his home knew just who had built it. Prestige and acknowledgment were everything. In the eyes of a Winthorp, being ignored was a fate worse than death, one saved for only the most worthless among them…

The feel of polished wood beneath my fingers draws my attention back to the present. Instinct must have guided me here without any input from my brain: I’m before a door. The one to Mischa’s study.

Stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.

With his taunt in my head, I hesitate for only a second before palming the handle and crossing the threshold. Everything looks untouched. Still, I circle the desk and wrench a drawer open for the hell of it. Do I expect to find anything of value? No.

But I can’t ignore the thrill building in my stomach as I run my fingers through loose pens and scattered bits of blank paper. He’s messy, forsaking the strict organization Robert prided himself on. My husband arranged his pens by nib color and size, preferring to have them lined up on the right-hand side of his desk, at the ready. He kept photos on the opposite end. Of me, of his father. He would look at either one depending on which mood he felt like embodying at that given moment: ruthless or vengeful? He could switch them out like hats.

Mischa keeps no such reminders, at least none I can discern. There are no trinkets, no keepsakes, no women—family or otherwise. Oh, but there have been. I picture the red room with renewed interest. Where would a heartless shell of a man keep reminders of his woman?

The answer is as intangible as it is obvious:everywhere.My perfume permeated Robert’s suite. I may have been rarely seen and barely heard, but he was aware of my presence.Always.He relished in it: the captive bird whose chirping he could sense, no matter the room she was in.

Maybe the identity of Mischa’s bird lurks in plain sight as well?

When I leave the study in search of another room, I find nothing in it. It’s empty, decorated in muted grays, with no sign of life in sight. The room beside it reveals nothing, either. Neither do the rest in the entire wing. Retracing my steps back to Mischa’s room feels like a halfhearted retreat to familiar ground—at least until I enter the room beside his.

My fingers tremble as I switch the light on and scan the interior for the second time. In the end, the perfume and the old clothes are my only finds. Mischa guards his secrets too well. He upholds his end of the bargain by letting me explore in peace, but I can sense him waiting deeper in the house for me to find.

I chase his essence down the grand staircase and then through an array of cavernous rooms. I suppose it’s only fitting that I eventually spot his shadow in one of them, seated opposite an imposing man with dark hair. He’s familiar, in fact, conjuring uneasy tension in my belly.Sergei.

“I came here alone,Pakhan,” he says, conveying his chilling sense of calm. “I have no motive.”

“With all due respect, I have to wonder why a man like you would want to waste good money on a Winthorp whore,” Mischa replies.

Heart in my throat, I freeze, watching the exchange from the mouth of the hall.

“Waste? No.” Sergei inclines his head dismissively. “Perhaps I want tosparethe girl from whatever fate you have in store. After all, your hatred is toward the Winthorps themselves, is it not? I know the boy has contacted you about her—”

“Do you now?” Mischa counters, sounding unnerved in stark contrast to how I feel.

My blood runs cold. My heart stops. It takes me seconds to pick apart the cryptic riddle: the boy.Robert?

“I also know that you’ve refused him, despite what he offered. Why? Does revenge really mean so much to you? Or maybe there’s some other reason you want to torment this woman—”

“Perhaps,” Mischa admits. “Maybe I’m simply not finished with her yet.”

“And when will you be? Finished?” Sergei counters. “Or have you lost yourself that much you can’t even foresee an end to your brutality?”

“Careful, Sergei,” Mischa says softly. “One might think you’ve forgotten the mission you yourself started. Have you forgotten Anna-Natalia already?”

“Never,” the other man counters. “But I’ve lived long enough to learn that violence solves very little.”

“And yet, you gave up your title as leader. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“No.” Sergei leans forward, bracing his hands against the armrests of his chair. “Don’t challenge me, Mischa. I meant no offense. But if you wish to keep the girl, it’s your decision.” He inclines his head respectfully before rising from the table. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”

He turns for the door, spotting me there. His eyes scan my body slowly, honing in on my face with uncomfortable scrutiny.

“I can show myself out,” he says to Mischa before advancing over the threshold.

I scurry back, pressing myself against the wall to clear enough space for him to pass. But he doesn’t. He inclines his head instead, observing me more closely.

“What is your name?” He speaks softly enough that only I can hear.

I say nothing.

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