Page 52 of VII (Seven) (War of Roses 2)

Chapter 18

He finds me in my room when night falls. Dangling from one of his hands is a black dress, which he has to help me into. Then, still without word, he seizes my chair from behind and wheels me into the hall.

We don’t take the ramp. He brings me to the top of the staircase instead and then lifts me from the chair entirely. Startled, I cling to him as he brusquely carries me down the stairs and through a corridor I recognize as the one leading to the large meeting room he held his last gathering in.

This time, a table has replaced the circular arrangement of chairs, and only one man is seated.

Sergei’s aged at least ten years since I saw him last. More gray streaks his hair, and lines surround his mouth, etched into the skin. When he sees me, he stands abruptly, his expression constricted. “I heard about the…incident with Nikolaus,” he states as Mischa approaches. His side of the table contains two chairs, one of which Mischa shoves me onto.

But he doesn’t rush to claim the one beside me. Instead, he extends his hand, his gaze guarded. “Sergei.”

“Mischa.” The other man clasps his hand in return, shaking it. “I thought it was about time we talked.”

“So talk,” Misha commands. He’s being rude.

I’m not well versed in their hierarchy, but I can suspect from Sergei’s raised eyebrow that he’s caught off guard. Still, he disguises his alarm well.

“I want you to reconsider your options,” he says. “By now, you know what the boy is capable of. He’ll retaliate. The girl will be safer with me.”

“So this is what this is about…” Mischa laughs, shaking his head. Then his hand moves so fast that I almost miss it. In a flash, he yanks a knife from his pocket and has the blade against my throat.

“Stop!” Sergei nearly lunges across the table as the metal grazes my skin. “What are you doing?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” Misha replies. He presses the knife harder, drawing a gasp from my throat. It’s not for show. Sharp, pinching pain alludes to the fact that he’s already sliced through skin. “What is she to you? Enough fucking games. Just come out and say it.”

“Let her go.” Sergei’s eyes move from my captor to me, flashing with uncertainty. “Mischa—”

“Fucking say it!” The knife withdraws as he slams the blade onto the table so hard that the legs shudder. “Now. So she can hear you. Is she yours? Is that it?” When the other man doesn’t answer, he points the knife at me again. “I fucking swear to god—”

“Remember who you are talking to.”

I jump at the authority ringing in Sergei’s tone. He’s transformed in an instant, and now, I see that Mischa was right to be wary of him. “You show me respect, boy.”

“And you show respect to me!” As Mischa grabs me from behind, his hand forming a collar around my throat, a gasp rips from me. “Tell me who the fuck she is. Tell me now.”

Sergei’s gaze flickers beyond us to the doorway. “Mischa…”

“I said tell me! Is she your fucking bastard—”

“I think she’sIvan’sbastard!”

Silence descends so abruptly that every breath I take echoes tenfold, deafeningly loud. Mischa’s gone from my side, standing paces away. “How?” he demands.

“How else?” Sergei shrugs. “Her mother was Marnie Winthorp, wasn’t she?” When he doesn’t receive an answer, he nods anyway. “She was. Ivan may seem grizzled now, but don’t be fooled. He’s younger than I am, always too damn soft for his own good. And to be honest…” He trails off, eyeing his hands. “I thought I’d erased any threat that woman could pose to him years ago. In fact, I’m surprised my brother hasn’t already deduced her identity for himself—”

“He hasn’t because she’s not,” Mischa snarls. I turn to face him, standing paces away, his eyes fiery. “Her mother was a fucking Winthorp whore. She’s no more Vasilev than the dirt on the bottom of my fucking shoe.”

“And if you were lying to me, you know that alone would give me enough of a claim to challenge you.” Though he and Mischa are the same height, Sergei suddenly seems larger, exuding a confidence he lacked before. “Because if she is of my blood, you know what that means.”

“Do I?” Mischa counters.

“It means my bloodline would have life in it, Mischa,” he replies, his tone deadly soft. “It means I’d have an heir to my name. And it means that perhaps I wouldn’t be so content to sit back and watch the next time your carelessness puts my people in danger.”

He eyes me pointedly, as if demanding I come clean now. Admit it.

“Do not get me wrong,” the man adds, returning his attention to Mischa. “I do not want to challenge you. But if I feel that you may have insulted and battered my family? If I feel that my bloodline is in play once more?IfI sense that you are more of a threat than a true leader…” He lets the unspoken threat hang in the air. “For now, continue your war with Winthorp if you have to. You still have my support. But think carefully about where you lead from here. And let me know if she happens to remember anything that may clear up her paternity.”

He leaves, carrying himself with that dangerously subtle aura.

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