Page 82 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Groaning, I dig my thumbs at my temples. “My head hurts—”

“Drink.” He nods his chin toward the nightstand.

I spot a tray waiting there, complete with a glass of water. Sitting upright, I grab the drink and drain it, never taking my eyes off him for a second.

Laughing, he basks in the attention. I jump when he starts to advance. Only now do I notice the vibrant, red substance painting the flesh from his nose down to his jaw.

“You’re bleeding.”

He frowns at the sound of my voice, weak and hoarse. Almost like I really give a damn.

But I don’t.

More memories return in painful snippets, demanding my attention. “Briar. Where is she—”

“Tell me. What did we decide on, Little Rose?” Mischa wonders as one of his hands feels along his thigh. With predatory grace, he slides his fingers into the pocket of his fatigues and withdraws something long. Gleaming. “That’s right. You want to be sliced into pieces.” He feigns ignorance as he hefts the blade for inspection. “Think. If I were to give you the choice right now between a permanent divorce or severing that pretty head from your body, which would you choose?”

He seems to think it’s a serious question, one that requires ample thought and consideration. But it doesn’t.

“I’d want you to kill me.”

“Oh?” He laughs, spitting more blood down the front of his shirt. “Are you sure about that, Little Rose? No. I think you want to live. Badly enough you’dbegfor it.”

My eyes go to the knife. His fingers twitch over the handle, tightening, relaxing…tightening, relaxing. Clenching. For a second, I’m back in the woods, dangling by a thread.Don’t let me go!

“Are you just going to watch, Little One?” he asks, drawing my attention back to his face. He watches me coldly and jerks his chin toward the door to the bathroom.

I recognize the silent command. Not from Robert this time. Briar used to issue the same order whenever I found her hidden away in a room with a knife to her wrist. She never cut deeper than the surface layer of skin. Just enough to bleed. Her blue eyes would meet mine without a shred of concern and she’d always nod, merely once, when found.Clean me up.

Silently, I climb from the bed and smooth out the skirt of my borrowed dress. As my bare feet brush the tiled marble of the bathroom floor, I realize I’m limping.

“Your legs aren’t broken,” Mischa remarks as if in afterthought, but I catch him watching me, hunting my every step. “But you’ll bruise.”

Bruises deep enough to ache with every step I take. Even so, I make it into the bathroom alone. After spotting a shelf of linen, I grab a washcloth and wet it beneath warm water from the sink.

When I return to Mischa, he cocks his head back, directing with his gaze where I should clean first. Hischest, not his face. Someone hit him there, drawing a stream of blood from his nose and splitting the upper lip. He’ll heal with a bruise, but nothing more.

Below his collar, however, someone struck him with a knife. From a layer of rent cotton, I can tell that it’s deep. He’ll have another scar to add to his collection.

“What happened—”

“Your husband,” he says, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Did you ever see him wear a ring? You don’t.”

I glance down at my naked fingers and swallow my instinctive answer back. My husband didn’t need a ring to own me. “Yes,” I say instead, picturing the silver ornament my husband was rarely without. “He wears the Winthorp insignia on his right hand.” It was an ironic signature for such an infamous family. Beautiful, even: a dove carrying a delicate blade between its talons.

“So you’d recognize it,” Mischa says, almost to himself. The movement must irritate his wound, because he sucks in a breath and snaps his fingers.

Obediently, my free hand drifts to the hem of his shirt, aiming to help him remove it, but he shakes his head, clenching his jaw. So I press the cloth against the wound over the fabric and hold it there. He hisses but then grinds his teeth to suppress even that much sound. After a few seconds, he bats my hand away and grabs the cloth himself.

“I don’t dole out second chances, Little One,” he says, ignoring how fresh blood begins to taint the white fabric between his fingers. “But ignorance is bliss. So, this time, I’ll let you make an educated decision.”

I flinch as he lifts the knife only to return it to his pocket. Before I can deflate in relief, he takes something else from his pocket. Something small. Bloody. It leaves a smeared trail of burgundy as it lands on the sheets before me.

“Do you want to die as Ellen Winthorp or become someone new? Either way…” He stands and approaches the door while I observe the small object he left behind, attempting to identify it. It’s round. Shiny. Metal?

“Your husband is dead,” Mischa tells me at the exact moment I recognize the item as a ring. One I only ever saw on one man’s finger. “I suggest you plan your future as a widow carefully.”

A thud echoes as the door slams in his wake.

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