I (One) (War of Roses Book 3) Read online

  I: (One)

  War of Roses Book 3

  Lana Sky

  I: (One)

  I: (One) By Lana Sky

  Copyright © 2019 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Mickey, thank you so very much for taking the time to help me perfect this draft. As always, your feedback and expertise have been invaluable. Thank you, Charity for applying the final touches on this draft.

  Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement along the way! Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic and explicit content matter that is not suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: explicit sex, mentions of sexual abuse, and graphic depictions of violence.

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Lana Sky

  Preface

  My mother defined hell as a rose. One, she mused, with all the life sucked out of it. Its thorns had become knives, and the leaves swallowed up the stalk. Even so, underneath the violence, it was still beautiful.

  I used to believe that philosophy was her subtle attempt at religion. But now, years later, I know what she truly meant.

  Hopeless damnation isn’t contained in a realm of fire and brimstone—but somewhere far more dangerous. It springs from your soul, growing on creeping vines, and claims your heart before you realize it.

  In my mother’s view, the worst torture couldn’t be felt through pain, or death, or silence.

  To her, hell was love—and it was every bit as insidious as a corrupted rose.

  Chapter 1

  Mischa Stepanov has brutalized my body in ways I could have never imagined. My face bears his permanent mark, and he made me sever my own ring finger to feed his lie. He’s toyed with me. Mocked me.

  But this is the cruelest torture he’s inflicted. His aim isn’t to merely hurt me.

  He’s after my soul.

  And his attack comes in the form of one sentence only he could deliver.

  “I can help you find your son.”

  Even though Sergei Vasilev is standing before me, I know who’s responsible for this. And I know that only lies lurk in the envelope brandished in his outstretched hand.

  That’s all this is: lies.

  It has to be.

  “You don’t believe me?” Sergei’s mouth twists into a contemplative frown. When I don’t move, he raises the envelope higher, letting the ivory surface catch the dim light in the hall. “Fine. I’ll say it again: I have proof that your son is still alive—”

  “Please don’t do this.” I sound so hollow. Not angry. Not panicked. Just so damn tired. When he takes a step forward, I throw out my hand as if my trembling palm alone can ward him off. At least, for now, it does. “Please…”

  “No?” A low hiss rumbles from his throat. A sigh? “I must admit that I expected you to receive this news differently.”

  “Did Mischa tell you?” I stare at my hands. The fingers twitch, aching to guard my ears against any more lies. “About my…him?”

  “Mischa?” The inflection in his tone is convincing. He sounds confused—but I’ve already decided.

  Only a man like Mischa would weaponize my darkest secrets against me. In fact, he’d relish in doing so.

  “Well, he lied to you.” I force a weak laugh as I scan the hall for my tormentor. Is he lurking there beyond the stairwell? Or maybe around the corner?

  No matter the hiding place, he’s somewhere close, savoring his victory.

  “Mischa didn’t tell me a thing.” Sergei sounds too damn genuine. Smug, almost. He knows my captor better than I do.

  “He’s the only one I’ve told,” I confess, hating myself for being so foolish. “No one else.”

  “Is that so?” Sergei surprises me by throwing his head back, and of all things, he…laughs. “Child, I’ve known about your son since the day he was born.” When he meets my gaze, there is no amusement in his expression. Just unsettling insight that betrays a knowledge of so much more than I’m willing to accept. “In fact, I’ve known about you since the day you were born.”

  “How?”

  I hunt his wizened features for any hint of a lie and come to one grim observation: He shields his emotions well. Better than Mischa. It’s as if he can flick a switch, displaying only what he chooses to. And in this moment? His eyes reveal nothing.

  “Your husband has hidden him well, your son,” he says softly. “So well that my spies have gotten only a glimpse of him in four years—”

  “How can I believe you?”

  “You don’t have to.” He nods to the envelope. “You merely need to see for yourself.”

  He steps forward cautiously, giving me plenty of time to back away. When he’s close enough, he presses the envelope into my hand and coaxes my fingers into curling over the square surface.

  “I am the only one who can help you rescue him—”

  “And Mischa can’t?” Through watering, burning eyes, I watch his expression flicker—the briefest hint of irritation.

  “Mischa rescue the son of his sworn enemy?” His doubtful tone reveals what he thinks of that scenario. “You and I both know that he could sooner chop the boy into pieces and sell him off to the highest bidder—”

  “And you wouldn’t?” God only knows why I’m even playing this game. The envelope in my fist burns. Every cell in my body warns me to let it go. I watch my nails flex over it, but the damn thing won’t fall. Looking up, I meet Sergei’s gaze directly. “Why would you even want to help me?”

  “Because you are blood.” His eyes flash, reinforcing the heat in his tone. “He is my blood.”

  Tears finally escape, obscuring my vision. When Sergei brushes his hand across my cheek, I can’t even tell if the act contains genuine emotion or not.

  “I want to teach you,” he says. “You deserve a seat at the table, as my heir—”

  “Your time is up, Sergei.”

  I stiffen at the sound of Mischa’s voice.

  He lurks near the mouth of the hall, paces away. When he spots Sergei’s hand on my face, his eyes become slits. “I upheld my end of the bargain. Now, you can leave.”

  “I’ll continue to provide my support,” Sergei promises and he steps back—out of respect, not fear. “And if I’m needed, my men will kno
w how to contact me. Goodnight.”

  I watch him push past me, toward the front of the cottage. His steps echo, slow and heavy, as if he expects me to take him up on his implied offer any minute.

  But I remain silent, the perfect prey for Mischa to pounce on. His hand slams against the wall inches from my face, trapping me in place as he corners me from behind.

  “Don’t tell me,” he murmurs into my ear. “I missed all the fun, didn’t I—”

  I push away from him and lunge for the stairs. Every step is a struggle, and by the time I reach the landing, I’m forced to hobble into the nearest room and slam the door behind me. Then I lean against it for good measure.

  This small room contains only a bed and a rickety wooden chair in a corner—there’s nothing to hide behind. I have no defense against the attack that I know is coming.

  Sure enough, heavy footsteps rattle the floorboards in my wake.

  “What did he say?” Mischa demands harshly through the door. He tests the handle once but doesn’t push the door open. Yet. “What did he say?”

  Closing my eyes, I try to ignore him—ignore everything. My psyche is a fractured mirror, and for so damn long, I’ve carefully hoarded the pieces, holding them in place with sheer determination.

  Breathe…

  Breathe…

  “Fine, Rose. Play your little game of silence.”

  The walls themselves seem to sigh as Mischa retreats down the steps. He’s angry. I’ll pay for this later in the form of some insult or another.

  I don’t care.

  His absence depletes my body of any ounce of fight and I slide to my knees. Through blurred vision, I scan the surface of Sergei’s envelope. There are no markings on it. No hint as to its contents. My clenching fingers strain the thin parchment to the point of tearing it.

  Then I throw it so hard that it bounces off the opposite wall.

  “Ellen?”

  Footsteps creep toward my door again. Not Mischa’s, but someone slower, his pace uneven.

  “It’s me,” Vanya says and I stiffen. Mischa probably sent him, utilizing another to do his dirty work. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m…” In my mind, I envision those shattered pieces that make up who I am. To hold them together, I need to lie. Push back all remnants of the past. Suppress. Repress. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

  I attempt to, but the pieces shatter further, and I can’t protect myself from the aftermath.

  “You knew Marnie Winthorp,” I croak.

  He’s silent for so damn long. I try to imagine his expression, but I can’t. He is an enigma, so different from the callous men I’m used to. Unlike them, Vanya has yet to lie to my face, or hit me, or deceive.

  Which makes him more dangerous than a thousand Mischas combined. He’s earned my trust on his own merit.

  I can only hope I’ve earned his honesty.

  “Did you?” I press to break the silence.

  “Yes,” he finally admits. His voice is so hollow that I barely recognize it. “I knew her.”

  “H-how?” Those vicious scenarios Mischa posed creep into my thoughts. Brutalized. Kidnapped. Raped.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to fight the onslaught that I know is coming. But it’s too late. More tears creep beneath my eyelids and spill down my cheeks in spite.

  “You’re crying.” A gentle thud rattles the door as if he braced his hand against it from the other end. “Ellen…”

  “Did you hurt her?” I ask, choking my sobs down. I can’t seem to breathe again until his heavy sigh slips through the crack in the doorway.

  “Never,” he swears. “I would have never hurt her—”

  “Did you hate her? She was your enemy,” I point out. Before he can reply, I add, “Did…did you love her?”

  Seconds of silence trickle into minutes.

  “Tell me about her,” I demand, changing tack again. “Please.”

  “She was brave,” he says haltingly. “So damn brave. You wouldn’t expect it, coming from a tiny thing like that. She was beautiful too…” The door bows against my back as if he’s leaning against it from the other end. “So damn beautiful. I would never hurt her.”

  “But you kidnapped her,” I insist. “Or your brother did, or…” I bury my face in my hands, digging my fingers into my temples. “It doesn’t matter. You took her and then she escaped. But how? Why?” It takes everything I have to bite back the most important question of all.

  Why did you abandon me?

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told,” Vanya says, as gentle as always. “Some of it, admittedly, might be true. But some…” He sighs again and the wood creaks, protesting against more pressure exuded on it from the other side. I wonder if the damn thing will give way altogether. He’ll break through.

  Just as the hinges start to squeal, the pressure recedes and the wood jarringly snaps back into place.

  “Just know this,” he says thickly. “She was never my captive. Not for one second. And she didn’t escape. I let her go—” His voice breaks, but he grunts, regaining his composure. “I let her go. Goodnight.”

  “Wait.” I scramble to my knees and reach for the doorknob—but he’s already gone and my eyes continue to overflow.

  No man on Earth could fake the pain in his voice—or the raw honesty, either.

  No matter the circumstances of their relationship, I don’t doubt that he let Marnie go.

  Or that she went back to Robert Winthorp, Sr. of her own accord.

  Which means…she let me live as her dirty, unwanted secret.

  And maybe most telling of all…

  If Sergei wasn’t lying, then she never even told my father about me.

  Chapter 2

  It feels like hours pass before I finally gather up the strength to stand and cross over to that crumpled envelope. I lift it carefully from the floor and wipe away the dust and grime newly coating that mocking white. Then I shove it beneath the bed’s lumpy mattress and turn away, pushing it from my mind altogether.

  Maybe I just don’t have the heart to rip it into pieces like I should.

  Or perhaps I just need it to serve one pathetic purpose: proof. Unlike Marnie Winthorp, I refuse to be used as a pawn, shuffled between players on the gameboard. From now on, I can only act on what I know. What I feel in my bones.

  My past must stay dead.

  I can’t be manipulated again.

  And it feels so damn good to leave that room, knowing that the only person driving my actions is me. Even as I sway unsteadily on trembling legs—at least I’m no longer Marnie’s naïve mistake or Mischa’s unwilling victim.

  But as I wander the rickety hall beyond the staircase, I’m forced to admit one reality: I’m still a mouse trapped in a maze.

  At least I’m not the only creature forced to jump through the hoops of this new world. Not far from the other room, I come across the one the little girl’s lying in. My fellow Mouse, in the literal sense. Despite the late hour, she’s sitting upright in bed, staring intently as a hulking figure attempts to spread jam on a piece of toast.

  “Too much or not enough?” he gruffly inquires, holding his slathered slice up for input.

  Unsatisfied, Mouse wrinkles her nose and shakes her head in a silent command. More.

  “Fine.” Sighing, Mischa applies another layer of jam. “Do you know how much sugar is in this shit? You’re going to be bouncing off the walls—”

  I must have made a sound, because he turns, breaking off. Oddly enough, my presence is acknowledged with only a grunt before he returns his attention to the girl.

  “The old man says you can start walking around tomorrow,” he continues, presumably referring to Vanya. “But I don’t know… All this sugary shit and you might be able to fly.”

  He relinquishes the slice of bread, which the girl promptly shoves into her mouth.

  Looking at him, she cuts her eyes in my direction and Mischa copies her. Then he laughs.

  “You watch your mouth,” he sco
lds, running his palm over her scalp. “It’s rude to call people names.”

  “And what is that?” I ask, stepping over the threshold.

  Both figures turn to me and share another mischievous look.

  “That’s it,” Mischa declares. My cheeks prickle with heat as he throws his head back and laughs more genuinely than I think I’ve ever heard. “Bedtime.” He snatches the tray of bread and jam and places it on a table beyond her reach. “No more sweet stuff for you. You get too mouthy.” He looks at me, still smirking, and my heart lurches.

  Strip him of anger and he can appear human.

  But like this?

  He’s a different man, glimpsed through the window of a rare second when he has no guard to maintain or façade to uphold.

  But just as quickly, the hardened criminal returns and his smile transforms into a seething glare.

  “I’ll be back,” he barks to Mouse before advancing on my position. “But first, Little Rose and I need to have a chat—”

  I turn before he can finish and lead the way back to the room I came from while he follows. Rage lashes from him like a weapon. It slices at my skin, fighting to leave a mark—but my new armor is impenetrable, it seems: I’ve just stopped caring.

  “What did he say to you?” Mischa demands as he barrels into the room, slamming the door. The violent thud echoes like a gunshot—and all I can do is laugh in its terrifying wake. “Something funny, I’m guessing?” He grabs my arm, wrenching me around to face him. “Did you two come up with some hilarious little scheme to—”