Page 75 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Chapter 22

Ilurk inside the red room, in self-imposed exile, while clues as to the goings-on of the rest of the manor’s occupants seep through the door. Mischa’s been busy, it seems. Shouts ring out from below as footsteps rattle the walls. Apart from a stern-faced man coming to replace the doors to the bedroom and bathroom, I’m left alone. The chaos rages around me like a storm, but I’m too tired to stick my head beyond the doorway and gauge its intensity. Instead, I sleep, savoring the precious hours of peace.

I bide my time.

Winning matters to men almost as much as their money does. Rarely do they lose their precious little games—and only when a greater prize is worth the forfeit.

So what is his end goal?

It terrifies me to admit the obvious: I don’t know, and I can’t even begin to guess.

Mischa’s punishment lords on my horizon like a cloud, inescapable and building in strength with every passing second. How will he deliver it? With physical blows? With sex? By selling me?

The logical part of my brain does its best to muster up fear of any one of those scenarios. But it’s no use. What little food I’ve ingested since leaving the basement doesn’t return my itch for survival. I’m far too reckless when it comes to imagining what I can endure now.

A beating.

A rape.

Being whored out to other men.

None of those prospects inspire the terror they used to.

I’m too damn tired. I just want him to get it over with, whatever his plan may be.

But he’s too damn patient.

When a knock rattles the door, he isn’t the one behind it. Instead, I find Vanya, his expression wary. Balanced on his hands is another tray, this one containing a bowl of soup, a sandwich, and more water.

“Is…is something wrong?” I croak, alarmed by his serious expression.

“We will talk when you’re feeling better,” he says, his voice strained. “For now… Eat.”

I take the tray from him without complaint, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he watches while I bring the food to the bed and force a few bites down. On behalf of Mischa or himself?

I can’t tell.

Satisfied, he faces me directly, folding his hands over his lap. “I suggest you stay out of sight today. Mischa is planning—” He breaks off and seems to rethink his words. “Just stay out of his way.”

“Why?” I can’t stop myself from questioning him despite the part of me clenching in foreboding. Judging from the look in Vanya’s eyes, whatever Mischa is up to, I don’t want to know. “Is he planning to sell me?”

“Sell you?”

I’m caught off guard by how Vanya laughs.

“Things would be so much easier if he were, believe it or not.”

I stiffen, but he doesn’t sound malicious. Just…alarmed? “What is that supposed to mean?”

He meets my gaze. In the dim lighting, he looks so much older. Wizened and worn. “It means that you need to be more careful around him,” he warns. “I won’t pretend to know what you’ve been through before now. But Mischa… He can be a terrifying enemy. Or he can be a ruthless ally. If he sees you as a threat, he will eliminate you quickly.” He frowns, eyeing me as if seeing me for the first time. His hand drifts toward my cheek only for him to lower it without touching me. “But if he sees you as a tool worth having, he will never let you go.”

My brain mulls his words over, pairing them with the way Mischa cornered me in the bath, constantly weighing my worth to Robert.

I’m his enemy still. I’m sure of it.

So then why does Vanya’s silence unnerve me as he leaves, closing the door behind him? Alone, I devour the rest of the food without dwelling on the tempting impulse to throw it away. When I finish, I leave the tray outside the door and climb onto the bed.

With Mischa’s use for me in question, it’s ironic that I’ve been forced to wear the strange woman’s clothing once again. I chose a simple white dress that might have been a nightgown, yet I feel her in every inch of satin. She mocks me, this faceless predecessor. She taunts me.

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