Page 50 of VII (Seven) (War of Roses 2)

But it’s a role Mischa hasn’t undertaken. Why?

Women flock to him, I’m sure of it. Women like the desperate maids of Winthorp Manor who hunted Robert’s men—or, in some cases, my husband himself. They liked the thrill of playing with dangerous, damaged men. Some of them entertained fantasies of fixing them.

Most quickly learned the folly of that hope.

“You don’t share your bed with anyone,” I add, furthering my suspicions. Yet he has no qualms with doing so—he’s certainty haunted mine. Could he simply be a lonely man, unable to attract the opposite sex? No. There’s more to it. Hell, it might be the most obvious explanation of all. “You don’t trust anyone. Not to say you trust me,” I add in a rush, “but I’m under your control. I can’t leave. There is no real risk in using me.”

“If only that were the case,” he says quietly. “But there is more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there,Ellen?”

“Maybe there is.” The words are out before I can take them back. Perhaps there is no point in resisting him. He frowns at my change in tactic, wary. “I give up. You’re right. Everything I do is a ploy to seduce you.”

Even admitting as much, apparently.

He cocks his head to the side, suspicious. “Do you really think you can?”

I remember that I’m naked as his gaze rakes over me. Suddenly, he stoops to lift a rag from the floor. Then he switches the water on, making it hot enough that steam forms as it pours into the tub. In silence, we wait as the water level rises. From the corner of my eye, I catch the moment he finally comes for me, rag in hand.

He lifts me sideways, sliding one arm around behind my waist and the other beneath my legs. My arms automatically go around his shoulders, tightening as he steps down into the tub, still fully clothed. He sets me on the floor and wraps my cast in plastic. Then he turns me to face him, muscling into the space between my legs.

“You’re shivering, Little Rose,” he scolds as he wets the rag with one hand and glides it along my shoulders. “One might think you’re afraid.”

“I’m not.” I sound so tired. So…bored. A man who’s tormented me for weeks is bathing my limbs with all the care of a nursemaid and I don’t care. But I do. There’s something unsettling about him when he’s up this close—in a way more than just fear.

I think I can see it now, what Vanya does. Mischa isn’t evil. He just smothers whatever strives to do good inside him. It’s obvious in how his fingers twitch as he washes my arms and then my torso. It takes effort on his part to resist the urge and gingerly cleanse my every bruise and scrape without rousing pain. Hewantsto rub and scrape and hurt—I can see that.

Humanity is a battle for him, one he has to fight tooth and nail.

I’m not sure how much time passes before he finishes. Hours? Minutes? When he finally lets the water drain out, he dresses me in a plain nightgown and returns me to the wheelchair.

“I want to know something,” I blurt as I watch him pick up his supplies. “You said you’re the leader of yourmafiya—”

“Themafiya,” he corrects.

“How?”

He isn’t terribly young, but he’s definitely not the oldest of the men I saw at his last gathering, either. Vanya alone possesses his own quiet strength and wisdom that would make him a suitable leader in his own right. And Sergei. For whatever reason, the other man stood aside for Mischa.

Why?

“You certainly ask a lot of questions.”

“You promised to enlighten me,” I point out. “I want to know.”

More than that. I want to know why a man like him can amass seemingly so much power and yet have so little. Robert pined and scraped in the shadow of his father for years, but one might think he ruled the whole world because his arrogance was so unmatched.

“Should I tell you a story, Little Rose?” he wonders as he tosses the soiled rags into a hamper. “About how a stupid, young prick worked his ass off to earn the right to be a fucking king? In your world, power is handed to those who are born with it stamped on their asses by virtue of whose dick they sprang from. But in mine…” He runs a hand over his arm, drawing back a sleeve to reveal a hint of the patchwork of tattoos adorning it. “In mine, it is paid for in blood and politics. I am where I am because I bled for it and clawed for every piece of it.”

“So tell me how,” I hear myself rasp. I sound genuinely curious despite myself. Maybe a little desperate as well. I could keep comparing him to Robert—but there’s no point. Every tool of survival I honed until now is rendered useless in this realm and against this monster. I have to relinquish all of my old, pathetic habits. I need to study this man from the ground up.

Starting with anything he’ll give me.

“I… I’m listening.”

He frowns, cocking his head. “Are you now?”

I stiffen as he advances, only to watch on in confusion when he brushes past me and enters the hall. He lingers near the doorway, a silent command for me to follow. My heart races as I trail him down the hall and toward his infamous study. Once we’re both inside it, he closes the door and I hear him lock it.

Purely to intimidate.

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