Page 73 of VII (Seven) (War of Roses 2)

“Fine!” I turn, feeling blindly through the dark. “If you’re not serious—”

“Let’s hypothetically say that Briar Winthorp wandered from her brother, who offered to trade her life for yours. Does it matter in the end?”

My chest tightens. Could Robert really be so cruel?

Of course he could.

“Is she alive?”

He eyes me for so long that I assume he won’t answer. “I’m not sure, but if he can’t trade her, she’s only a threat to his power.”

I force myself to nod. “Fair enough.”

“Any other questions while you’re at it?” He’s mocking me, but I eagerly take the bait.

“Tell me about my mother.”

He shrugs, his expression suddenly distant. “You know most of what I know. She was taken by Sergei Vasilev, starting the war.”

He’s already told me this part of the tale. I don’t know why it’s still not enough. Maybe I’ll always chase any hint of her I can—secrets and second-hand lies are all of her I’ll ever have.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because your husband’s father began flexing his muscle. Sergei decided he needed to be put in his place.”

“So why continue this stupid feud if it was yourmafiyawho started this?”

“We didn’t kill anyone, Rose,” he snaps. “The Winthorps played dirty.”

“But why keep it going for so long?”

He laughs. “Because it’s all we know. Why do lions fight hyenas? It’s life.”

He makes it sound so damn simple. All of this violence and death. I think of Nikolaus, and Kostas, and Sergei.

Then I laugh brokenly, hating how hopeless I sound. “You’re really okay with continuing this for forever?”

“Not forever.” He reaches out, ghosting his palm along my cheek. “Just long enough.”

I turn away, but my jaw burns in the wake of his touch. “So why keep me?”

“Do I really have to tell you again? What I want?” His hand captures mine, forcing me to face him. “This is what I want.”

He doesn’t give me the chance to resist. His lips descend over mine, his tongue invading. When I stiffen, his hand sinks into my hair.

“No.” He draws back enough to nip my bottom lip between his teeth. “Don’t fight it.”

It. The way he tastes. How he feels. The longer he kisses me, the more my thoughts dissipate. He’s worse than the drug Vanya gave me in the aftermath of my severed finger.

I can overcome an opiate, but not him.

“This,” he breathes as my lips part further. “This is what I want. Little Rose, letting down her guard, dropping the act. You’re mine.” His hands cinch my waist, hungrily yanking me closer.

“S-stop!” Panting, I spring back, swiping at my mouth. Surprisingly, the kiss isn’t what has my heart racing. It’s a pathetic thought that should be the least of my concern. “I don’t want to be your trophy—”

“Good. A trophy has no loyalty. It belongs to whoever snatches it at the end of a battle.” His gaze rakes me over and narrows. “I don’t want a token prize.”

“So then what do you want?”

---