Page 30 of VII (Seven) (War of Roses 2)

Or I can fight.

My eyes stream as I crane my neck, repulsed by what I see. His pants are down, his palm clenching his cock. I override every instinct urging me to scream and I…

Laugh. Loudly. Hard. I cackle mercilessly even as I lose feeling in my toes. Fingers. Arms. An invisible vise is tightening around my chest with every second. Blood floods my mouth.

You’re dying,that honest voice in my soul hisses.

When Nikolaus curses, I know I’ve succeeded in one aspect so far. Men like him can’t bear being taunted. They feed off fear and cowering.

So I force my tongue to move and mock him instead. “I…was…wrong. You aren’t even a fraction of the man Mischa is.”

How ironic that thinking of him anchors me when my thoughts fight to fade and my limbs grow heavier. Mischa, my tormentor. He’ll chase me into the grave.

God, it’s like I fucking hear him. Shouting. Roaring…

Pounding?

A man groans amid a crunching thud of bone. Suddenly, Nikolaus is gone and someone new takes his place, crouched over me.

“Look at me, Little Rose,” he demands, haloed by a wreath of wild, golden hair.

My eyelids flutter. I’m dreaming.

“Look at me. You fucking hear me? You can sink into the black. Think you can run from me… But you’ll die when I say you can, Ellen Winthorp. And I’m not done playing with your fucking soul just yet.”

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