Page 77 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

He wrenches himself out.

Fiery spurts of liquid splash against the backs of my thighs, and then he’s gone. The mattress bounces as his weight withdraws. A metallic hiss betrays the sound of metal slicing through my binds, releasing me to lie here boneless and panting for breath.

He leaves me like that, huddled and used.

And, as the door slams, I begin to understand what other weapons he has in his arsenal besides physical violence.

He bringspleasure.

And, for the sake of my soul, I should fear every fucking drop.

* * *

Robert never played with fire. At least not the brand Mischa likes to set.

Sex with my husband was an ordeal I knew how to cope with. I’d studied how to bear it.

I never dreaded it.

Five hours after he left, I know that my new tormentor will return. Soon. He’ll do this to me again.

Will I let him? A shudder ripples through me; I’ve never contemplated such a thing before. Choice. I’ve never had to weigh the consequences of one action against the pain of another. In twenty-three years, I’veneverfeared reaching my breaking point—not like this. I’ve never had to look in the mirror and wonder,How much more can you take?

The woman staring back at me doesn’t seem to know. Her blue eyes sport visible cracks, splintering her stoic façade. Something terrifying lurks underneath those delicate features. I feel it running through my skin, causing my fingers to tremble against the countertop. In a desperate bid to suppress whatever it is, I draw another bath and scrub myself clean of every ounce of Mischa. When I return to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, I find another tray waiting for me on the bed.

I dress first, raiding the mysterious wardrobe for a modest black frock. Then I sip from a bowl of soup and obediently empty the accompanying water bottle.

After leaving the tray outside my door, I retreat within the room and wait. It should be a familiar game—the preferable option to any other. I used to wait for Robert without fail, anticipating his various moods to better withstand them.

I try to predict Mischa. I let the darkest depths of my imagination play with inventing the multiple scenarios he could have lying in wait, ready to spring. He could sell me to Sergei or return me to Robert alive. Any one of those outcomes would be better than the horrors my brain starts to conjure.

Him,returning to this room late at night with more rope.

Me,unable to stop him.

Notwantingto…

Suddenly restless, I rise from the bed and stagger to the doorway. My heart flutters at the thought of leaving my refuge. Regardless, I twist the knob and step out into the hall.

This part of the floor seems empty, but muted noise betrays a commotion lurking farther within the house. On bare feet, I find myself tiptoeing toward it. Why? Iknowwhat happens to those caught underfoot in the world of men. I also know just who most likely awaits at the heart of the tension resonating through the walls.

Like a moth to a flame, I can’t escape the invisible shackle drawing me forward, anyway. Curiosity.

It feeds on the pathetic part of my soul that flares to life the moment I reach the stairs and spot the monster lurking at the base of them. His gaze finds me instantly, narrowing over my hiding spot in the shadows. God, his face looks even worse from this angle. The triplet slashes gleam in the glow of the overhanging chandelier, conjuring another memory from the depths of my psyche. Hellcat.That’swhat Robert’s men called a “feisty” woman.The bitch was a hellcat, fucking scratched me all up.

They usually punished those women for their resistance. In my experience, hellcats wound up in the place of their namesake: hell.

Perhaps this ismytailored version of it? Trapped in his house, at his mercy, with no escape in sight. The flames are invisible, but the real burn comes from the deep-seated knowledge that I haven’t tried to escape.

Not yet.

“Let’s go.” Turning from me, Mischa inclines his head, and only now do I notice the other men gathered around him. They crowd before the door and they leave in single file, their jaws clenched in stern determination, weapons in hand.

Something is wrong, and I recall a snippet of the conversation I overheard with Sergei. Robert? Could he be here? Now? My heart races at the thought. Fromrelief. That’s what I tell myself as I pick my way back to the red room and close the door.

Iwantmy husband to find me. To save me? Something in my soul takes issue with that phrasing. I have to sink down, with my back pressed against the door, and find a new term to use. Find? Reclaim? Purify? Yes, I want my husband topurifyme before Mischa’s taint can take over.

As the daylight wanes, I let myself imagine how a reunion with Robert might unfold. He’d never storm into Mischa’s compound on his own. No, a group of his men would do that. They’d be the ones to find me and drag me to the safety of Winthorp manor. He’d never consent to see me like this, so I’d have to be bathed first, have my wounds cleansed and all traces of another man erased. Only after Mischa’s bruises have healed would he touch me again.

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