Page 70 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

“Why would he want me?” An answer comes from the back of my mind before Misha can give me one. It’s something Sergei himself said.You look like her…

“To fuck,” Mischa suggests crudely. “To kill. Take your pick—”

“M-my mother.” Pain constricts my chest. I can barely get my next words out. “Did…did he—”

“Rape her?” Mischa wonders. “Probably.”

He makes the violent act sound so casual. And I look like her. Marnie. Sergei could have some sick fetish for reliving his abuse of her. Or…

“You’re wondering if he could be your father?” Mischa asks, intruding upon my deepest thoughts without care or permission. “The timeline works, but from the rumors I’ve heard, your father could be any one of the men in the Vasilev employ.”

Hot tears escape down my cheeks too quickly to attempt to hold back. Memories of my mother are like delicate shards of broken glass I’ve carefully preserved all these years. Beautiful to look at, painful to touch. I look like her, now more than ever, in a way Briar could only dream. Our scars are the same. Haunted, hollow, empty eyes.

“This hurts you,” Mischa says.

I expect him to laugh, savoring my pain. Instead…his thumb catches a tear and smears it against the flesh of my cheek as if to ensure it was real.

“Knowing that your father could be one of them—”

“Stop.”

“Didn’t you ever question why she never told you?”

I did, only to conjure more pain whenever I felt heartless enough to mention it. “Stop—”

“If you had a child with me, and I let you run back to your precious husband. Would you ever tell her who I was?”

The question is as cruel as it is unbearable to contemplate. “No.”

“Is that the same courtesy you extend to your child with Winthorp?”

Enough.I squeeze my eyes shut, slapping my hands over my ears. No. He can’t pull this answer out of me. I won’t let him—

“Look at me.” His voice echoes inside my head, impossible to escape. “I won’t tell you twice—”

“Just kill me.” I utter the words while peeling my eyes open to gauge his expression. I find nothing. Not even hate. Just emptiness.

“Thisiskilling you,” he says. “Knowing that I can get inside your head. That I can take whatever the fuck I want—”

“Then take it!” I’m screaming though I don’t know why. Or why more tears fall, coating my chin in wetness.

Robert is a parasite, feeding on whatever I have to give—but Mischa is a virus, invading every inch of me and turning my own body into a stranger’s. Someone I hate.

“Or is torturing me how you ignore your own pain?” I wonder, knowing full well that it’s already too late to turn back. “Numberseven?”

I see black. Feel fire. Taste blood.

As I blink frantically, I realize I’m on the floor, staring up at the face of a monster. His fist is clenched, the knuckles dripping blood as my left cheek throbs in agony. His eyes are downcast, his mouth tight. In shock? Horror? His fingers flex, and for the first time, I see something I could describe ashumanin him.

Regret?

Regardless, I wait for my stomach to clench in fear and the cowering instincts I’ve lived by for so long to rear their head. Instead, my skin burns, set alight by shame and hate.Hate.I’ve never hated Robert. I loathe Mischa. The foreign emotion festers inside me, controlling my muscles and blotting out every intelligible thought.

With my head throbbing, I somehow make it onto my feet. Onto him, nails drawn, legs kicking, hands slapping, biting. Anything I can reach. I’ve played one game for so damn long that I have no patience for another.

If he wants to kill me, then he can kill me.

Now.

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