VII (Seven) Page 17
“Fine.” I rack my brain for another question and come up with one easily. “Did I see Briar that night?”
He looks away. “And if you did?”
“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 your mafiya who 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?”
He throws his head back, exasperated. “Do not play stupid—because you aren’t. You are not stupid.”
“Maybe I need to hear it from you,” I counter, breathless. “So just tell me—”
“Fine.” He advances, backing me against a nearby tree. His fingers find my hair again, twisting in the strands of it. “Maybe I just like when you bite back. When you prove you’re more than Robert Winthorp’s pathetic little wife.”
“Or maybe it’s you,” I suggest. “You’re tired of being the wolf. I’ve seen you with Mouse. Even Vanya said—”
“Don’t.” He tugs sharply on my hair, yanking my head back. “Don’t make pretty little assumptions you can’t back up. You’ll just hurt your delicate sensibilities, Rose—”
“But what if I need to?” It’s a question I’m only brave enough to ask now. Not of him, but of myself. “What if I need to believe there’s more to you than this?” I swipe my thumb across my scarred cheek and watch him eye the marks as well. “What if I need to believe there’s more to you than a monster?”
“And why is that?” he demands, his voice low.
“Because…I don’t want to crave a monster.”
My cheeks sear at the confession, but it’s too late. The words taint the air, spoken aloud, and I’m too exhausted to take them back.
He stiffens, suspicious as always. Narrowed eyes betray his first instinct: fight back. He surges forward, crushing me against moss and bark, and I tense, expecting an assault.
Anything but another kiss, deeper than the first. It’s dangerous to let him in, but my body doesn’t care. It rails against common sense, letting him invade and claim.
It betrays me in every fucking way.
Suddenly, Mischa pulls back, his gaze darting toward the shadows. “Shit,” he hisses.
Dazed, my brain is slow to pick up on his unease. “What’s going on?”
“Shh!” He slams his hand over my mouth, his body rigid. He’s listening for something.
Or someone.
“Your husband might be more tenacious than I gave him credit for,” he snarls into my ear. “We need to move. Now!”
Dirt and brambles crunch underfoot as we race through the dark. His grip on my arm is my only tether to stability, steering me forward.
The farther we go, the more disorienting it is trying to make sense of the swaying branches and uneven terrain.
“Stop!” Suddenly, Mischa drags me behind a tree. “Stay here. I’m going to see if we’re being followed.” He pulls away, slipping into the darkness.
In his absence, the noise of the forest echoes tenfold. Every scurrying creature and gust of wind is a rustling footstep or intruder.
“It’s safe.”
I jump as Mischa reappears between two trees and beckons me with a jerk of his chin.
“Come. It seems we have ‘company.’”
We return to the house, where a black van is parked in the gravel driveway. For a second, I let my imagination play with the scenario that he finally decided to give up and sell me to Robert.
I’ll find him waiting for me in the foyer, his smile smug.
Instead, Sergei Vasilev is there, casting a hulking shadow. “I’ve had some of my men help secure your perimeter. You’re lucky I found your camp when I did,” he says. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t go far, and I don’t mind extending my assistance. In return, I have only one request.”
“Of course you do.” Mischa’s grip on my arm tightens. “And what is that?”
“To talk.” He nods toward me. “Alone. One minute, no more.”
“And if I refuse?”
Sergei laughs. “Don’t be foolish, Mischa. Without my help, Robert Winthorp would already be knocking down your door. My resources have kept him at bay for now. Should I reconsider?”
Mischa grits his teeth. “You—”
“Mischa!” Vanya appears from the end of a nearby hall. “We need to talk.”
“Fine, then. A minute, Sergei,” Mischa says, pushing past him. “A minute.”
“You look well enough,” Sergei says in his absence, sweeping his gaze over me. “But you and I both know that any more of this reckless foolishness and you and everyone in this house will wind up dead.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to come with me,” he says as if such a thing would be as simple as breathing. “See your ancestral home. Learn your real place.”
I rub at my temples. It’s surreal having him speak to me like this. There’s no affection in his voice. Just desperation.
“Why should I?”
“Could you really keep your son safe here?” he asks. “With Mischa?”
“W-What?” My voice shakes, so faint I barely hear it.
“This is proof.” He shoves the envelope at me. “Proof that your son is still alive. And that only I can help you rescue him from Robert Winthorp.”
Sample of I…
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A Word from the Author
Hey there!
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Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the story, please leave a review and recommend the book to any friend you think would love this twisted world. You’d have my eternal gratitude. Even a short sentence goes a long way!
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About the Author
Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea.
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