Page 54 of VII (Seven) (War of Roses 2)

Chapter 19

Idon’t return to my room. Instead, I crawl into a corner and sleep in a chair, tucked away in some distant corner of the house. Maybe I do it out of spite, shunning what few items of comfort he’s provided.

Maybe it’s shame.

In some ways, it helped to believe that my father was some faceless, nameless monster. Even when I thought he was Sergei. Those possibilities were men I didn’t know, whose kindness and mercy I couldn’t recall. Had my parentage been more sinister, it would hurt but I could handle it.

I can’t handle this.

The lies, and the intrigue, and the secrets. Vanya wasn’t always the man he is now, Mischa warned me once. If Sergei really is right, could I reconcile that horrible monster with the man who treated me with more kindness than a majority of the people in my life?

And Mischa…

I hate him. At the same time, I know it’s pointless too. You can’t blame a dog for biting and howling when it’s all he knows. You can’t expect a monster to feel an ounce of goddamn mercy.

So I don’t. Gritting my teeth, I focus on the only person I have control over in the situation. The only fool I can blame. Myself.

Alone in the silence of a forgotten hall, I contemplate every fucking mistake I’ve made up until this point—trusting Mischa even for a second is one of them. My fingers absently trace the fresh scratch he left over my throat. Did he goad Sergei intentionally?

Or did he mean in every word of his threat to kill me?

I should believe so. I should fester over it—another reason to hate him. Loathe him. Despise him. He’s a childish bastard with no fucking soul, but that’s the catch.

Children are never malicious without reason. They’re defensive, like Briar all the many times she made me submit to her. At his core, Mischa is an insecure, immature bastard. But there’s a reason behind his madness, and I can’t shake the sinking suspicion that he lied to me, and to Vanya, for a reason.

What exactly that may be?

I don’t care.

Ican’t.

If I stay hidden, I can almost pretend I’m back at Winthorp Manor, a realm I know well. Robert would give me a day or so of peace, just long enough to recharge my soul and lick my wounds. He’d never have to hunt for me because I’d instinctively know when to return to my cage and wait for him. I was a well-trained bird.

I’d never listen to heavy, thudding footsteps I knew to be his pacing the hallway nearby. My new captor never calls for me out loud. He can smell that I’m close. Sense that I’m near.

Overall, he has too much damn pride to surrender.

So we play our silent game for hours. His footsteps retreat. Return. Retreat again. I think it’s hours before a door finally opens, revealing the creature standing behind it. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, his hair a stark contrast over his pale skin. Shrouded by a wild fringe, his eyes glow—intense, but not angry. Beside him is the wheelchair.

For what feels like an eternity, we eye each other until he finally moves, turning his back to me. His hand shoots out, shoving the wheelchair further into the room. “The doctor is here,” he growls, his voice hoarse.

I watch him go. Only long after his final steps trail off do I move. Mischa isn’t waiting for me in the hallway or by the main stairs. Alone, I find the ramp and maneuver myself to the second floor. Inside the white room, I find a strange man wearing a white coat.

An hour later, my cast is in pieces and the doctor props a pair of crutches against the bed.

“Practice bearing weight gradually,” he warns. “I’m going to recommend that Mischa allow a physical therapist to come.”

With that, he leaves, and I attempt to stand only to cling to the bed frame with white-knuckled hands. The crutches are harder to maneuver with than the wheelchair and I can only move a few feet at a time. Sweat dribbles down my neck by the time someone enters the room to witness my struggle.

“Careful!” Vanya races to set down a tray of food. His arm goes around my shoulders, providing enough stability to keep me from pitching over. Then he steers me to the bed, murmuring the whole time. “Do you want to fall and break another bone?”

It’s too much. His voice, the soft, gentle cadence. His touch. My head is spinning and I clutch it beneath my fingers as if stroking my temples can unravel the tangled thoughts. “I’m fine. Just please… I-I need to be alone.”

“Are you all right?” His fingers still over my shoulder, but I don’t look up to see his reaction.

“I…I’m just tired,” I force myself to reply. “I just need sleep.”

“Get some rest. I’ll leave the food here for you.” He pats me gently and then leaves, and the dam of emotion I didn’t even know I was holding back breaks loose.

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