XV: (Fifteen) (War of Roses Book 1) Page 3

  “N-nothing.” The truth spills out of me in a broken whisper. Nothing. I know nothing.

  “We look alike,” Briar told me. That was all. “Like sisters…”

  I’m so lost in the memory that I don’t register him moving until it’s too late. Brutal fingers circle my throat and clench. Like a rag doll, I’m wrenched to my feet. Shoved back. I fall. Hit something soft…

  And then unmovable steel pins me down. He’s more than heavy. He’s a battering ram, crushing me to the mattress. What little air I suck into my lungs has no escape and forms a plug at the base of my throat.

  He squeezes until stars appear, dancing through the air and obscuring his face. His face. For some reason, I force my burning eyes to refocus, seeking out as much detail of it as I can. I always thought Robert would be the one to kill me. Not a stranger, his gaze like midnight.

  I’m dying. I feel it—my limbs jerk, controlled by instinct. Blood surges to my head. My pulse hammers against my eardrums. Right as my vision begins to fade, the pressure loosens a fraction. Just enough for me to suck in air again.

  “I’ve been patient, Little One,” he murmurs as I sputter. “Perhaps you need more incentive?”

  My breast. He cups it, capturing the flesh against his palm, grazing my nipple. There’s no ownership, like how Robert likes to caress me. Just rough, slow possession. I feel his nails, pinching and sharp.

  “I will give you one more chance to tell me what you know,” he says. “All of it.”

  He has no idea how dangerous a question he’s proposed. What I know? Nothing. If anything, he’s supplying more answers than I could ever deduce on my own. What was the word he used? A decoy.

  We look alike.

  “Robert knew I was coming for him,” the man growls, flexing his grip until I gasp. “You will tell me how.”

  Nothing. I can’t speak as terror crashes through my entire being. Even Robert couldn’t reduce me to this state so quickly. My eyes prickle in warning before heat spills from them.

  “I. Don’t. Know.”

  He frowns at the pathetic syllables I manage to muster. With a shift of his weight, he mounts me fully, wedging his bulk in the narrow gap between my thighs. My feeble attempts to resist him are defeated by his knee. He uses it as a battering ram to gain enough leverage to draw his pelvis in close.

  No man but Robert has ever been this close—and this newer creature is bigger. Crueler. Rougher.

  “How?” The man recaptures my throat, caressing my windpipe. “How did he know, hmm? We were careful. Does he have a spy? An informant?”

  My answering wheeze draws a chilling response: he sighs.

  “Please do not test me, Little One.” His touch leaves my breast and slides between my legs.

  “N-no!” My hands hammer against unyielding muscle even though it’s in vain.

  I learned a long time ago that it’s futile to resist. Admittedly, I’ve gotten better at it. Robert used to savor this reaction in me. He would ease a finger inside to prepare me for fucking.

  This man…

  He shoves me down, rearing back on his braced knee. “How many of my men do you think you can handle, Little One? Should I go first?”

  The threat is real. His eyes reveal nothing but endless darkness. He’d do it.

  I feel the evidence for myself, hard against my hip.

  “How did he know?” He trails his fingers from my throat to my chin, cupping it so that I’m forced to meet his gaze directly. In it, I find only darkness. “Tell me and I won’t touch you. I swear on your life.”

  But I have no answer to give him. No way to save myself.

  “Your choice.” The man’s nostrils flare. Then, without warning, he climbs off the bed and redoes the zipper of his pants.

  I can’t help the frantic way my chest heaves, desperately seeking air. The places where he touched me burn as if scorched. I don’t know if it’s a trick of the light or if the dark strands of hair wrapped around his fingers really are mine, torn from my scalp. Still, I don’t move. I lie there, at his mercy.

  I seal my fate.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I hope you are just foolish,” the man laments, sounding almost genuine. “Because bravery won’t serve you here.”

  He turns his back to me, adjusting his clothing with sharp, curt tugs on the fabric. Only from this angle do I catch the scars that riddle the base of his throat. Long, jagged, barely concealed by the fall of his hair.

  As if sensing my reaction, he faces me again, giving my body a chilling appraisal. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. What happens to those who cross me.” He waits as if for me to confess.

  But I wasn’t lying. I know nothing, especially not of him.

  “Fine. Perhaps not a fool, but reckless?” he wonders, shrugging. “If you won’t talk, then you will serve another purpose.”

  He returns to my end of the bed and snatches my wrist. Pain sears through my arm as he drags me after him. I stagger, flailing for balance while the room blurs around me. He takes me into the hall and down a short flight of stairs. When we reach the bottom, I rush to piece together our newer surroundings. The smells register first.

  Men. A lot of them. Their overwhelming stench chokes me, and I remember his threat. His promise. How many do you think you can handle?

  It’s darker here. The only light sneaks in through boarded-up windows. In the resulting shadow, I make out featureless faces. Shapes. At least ten figures are crowding this room, maybe twenty. All are suspiciously silent apart from a few laughs as I stagger in their leader’s wake. There’s an animal here as well. It growls as we come too close. A dog?

  A large one, I realize, as I spot it crouched in a metal cage in a back corner. Without a word, the leader hauls me to it and undoes the latch with his free hand.

  “Get!” he commands the beast, who skulks off, brushing my knee on its way past.

  Before the animal has fully left the cage, I’m shoved in its place, forced onto my hands and knees to fit inside the enclosure. Metal clangs as the door is slammed and the latch engaged.

  “Enjoy your new pet,” the man announces before leaving the room. “But no one touch her. Yet.”

  I ’ve been a bone before: an object placed on display to be watched. Guarded. Coveted.

  These men don’t whistle and howl like Robert’s. Even the dog does nothing more than sniff me. In the darkness, I sense a few searing gazes directed my way, but they’re silent for the most part, focused on whatever task is occupying them.

  We must be in a house of some kind. An old one. This narrow room with its faded wallpaper and sloped floors might have been a drawing room at one point, envisioned to entertain visitors or gatherings.

  Now? Its purpose appears more nefarious. There are boxes dispersed in between the men. What they contain, I can’t tell, but scents irritate my nostrils beneath the overwhelming stench of sweat. Chemical in nature. Gunpowder?

  But when one of the men nearest my cage stands, hefting an object beside him, I realize they’re all armed—with more than the small pistols Robert and his men carry. Long guns. Big guns. They prop them along the walls, always within reach.

  This space must be a storeroom of some kind, containing materials that need fifteen pairs of watchful eyes to guard them at all times. Five men are sitting at a card table in the center of the room, conversing in snippets of a language I can’t make out. Five more have taken various positions against the walls, while the rest are scattered in between, focused on packing something into the boxes. Something small. Round?

  “Uh-huh!”

  An object slams against the top of my cage. A hand? It belongs to a man who appears grotesque in the darkness. His eyes are the only feature I can clearly make out. They’re narrowed, focused on my face.

  “No peeking,” he barks in accented English. “You want to keep that face pretty? Look at the wall.”

  I obey. The wallpaper in this corner is peeling in places, revealing dried, decaying wood underneath.
As strange as it feels to admit, it’s a slightly better view than what I’m used to. Ironic, considering that Robert’s room is grand, as is the one he makes me sleep in. The walls are painted white. The floors are polished hardwood. Everything down to the bedsheets is of the finest quality. And every second I spent trapped within those four walls, I feared I might go blind.

  I wished I would.

  Darkness obscures the horror of my current surroundings. At the same time, it compounds it. There’s nothing to distract me from my own thoughts and what they imply. Briar, beautiful Briar. Did she know all along what trap she was leading me into?

  My eyes sting, and blinking doesn’t keep the tears at bay. They spill, hot and burning down my cheeks. For the first time in ages, my initial impulse isn’t to wipe them away. I let them fall and relish the bitter fear that leaves me trembling.

  Fear. It’s funny how such a terrible, awful emotion can be welcome. I once thought Robert had driven all emotion out of me—but he hasn’t. I don’t want to die here.

  “Relax.”

  My cage is slapped again from above, this time decidedly more softly. The blow draws me farther back against the bars with my knees pulled up to shield as much of myself as I can.

  “You don’t have to fear rape,” the man hisses. There’s a roughness in his voice but no mocking. He’s not lying. “Mischa can be cruel, but he never lets his men go that far.”

  The man jerks his chin toward the rest of the room as if to say, See? Look.

  I sneak a glimpse from the corner of my eye, surprised by what I find. Minutes after my arrival and I still haven’t drawn any more attention than a few guarded looks. Not out of respect, I suspect. More like…disinterest? Almost as if so many women have been locked within this cage that the novelty has worn off.

  “You don’t have that to fear from him. He is insane,” the man beside the cage admits, “but not a monster. He will hurt you, though, if you do not give him what he wants. Do not make him angry.” He stresses every word and taps the bars for emphasis. “He won’t fuck you, but he’ll still hit you.”

  My arm stings in memory. Oddly enough, I can’t decide what I fear more: sexual violence or brutality? I’ve never had a choice between the two before.

  “You want to ask something,” the man prompts, hissing out the words. “Ask it now. Get it over with. You already know the answer.”

  “Will…will he kill me?” My voice trickles weakly in the shadow of his.

  He’s right though. I already know the answer, even before he nods.

  “Yes. He will kill you. But, if you obey and keep quiet, he will make it quick. Try to make a scene or challenge him and…” He drags his thumb across his throat. Slowly.

  My eyes drift shut as I fight to suck in air. Keep breathing. It’s the one mantra that can save me when all else fails. Keep breathing.

  But my ragged breaths are too loud, drowning out the muted noise coming from the rest of the room—and this is the one time when I need to focus. Gathering any and every clue I can is the only hope I have to… What? Perhaps just learn the motives of the man who will kill me.

  “Y-your name?” I tilt my head back and strain my eyes through the dark, fighting to make out as much of my companion as I can.

  He’s old. Maybe fifty. The gray speckling his cropped hair catches what few flecks of light enter the room. I can’t tell how well questioning him will go over. But I have nothing left to lose.

  “What is your name?”

  “Ivan.” He scoffs. “They call me Vanya. However, it will be better for you not to—”

  “M-Mischa?” That name tastes strange on my tongue. Two clashing syllables, one soft, the other violent and harsh. “Is that his name?”

  Vanya scoffs again, shaking his head. The motion alone reveals that he didn’t mean to let that detail slip. “I suggest you not use that one, either—” He breaks off suddenly, cocking his head. Then he curses and kicks the side of my cage. “Hush. Keep quiet and look at the wall.”

  He’s gone a heartbeat later, marching toward the center of the room while two sets of footsteps approach from an outside hall. The heaviest pair belongs to him. Mischa. I know that even before I hear his voice, lashing like a whip that commands total silence in its wake.

  “Out.”

  The room itself trembles as fifteen men lurch into action like a well-oiled machine. Not all of them leave, however. One set of footsteps lingers behind the rest—they’re unsteady, betraying a slight limp on one side. From age or injury? I can’t tell.

  Apart from him and Mischa, there is one other man. He comes closer to my cage than his leader, his footsteps light and lazy. “Is this the decoy?” he wonders as the back of my neck prickles beneath his unfamiliar gaze. He too has an accent I can’t place. “You must be slipping, Mischa. I didn’t think even Winthorp could ever fool you—”

  “You have a job to do,” Mischa warns. “Do it.”

  “In front of her?” the other man asks.

  “She won’t live long enough to report anything of use to anyone.” There’s no malice in the threat. Mischa could be commenting on the weather for all the emotion his voice holds. Death must be that simple to him. That easy. “You have an hour. Vanya will watch you. I shouldn’t have to remind you, Xavier, that if you short me, I will kill you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of deceiving you, Pakhan,” Xavier simpers, but even I recognize the careful way he melds the taunt with a hint of respect. He knows which lines not to cross.

  Apparently, the display satisfies Mischa enough to leave without reinforcing his brutality. In his wake, the air thins. I’ve been holding my breath all this time.

  “Make it quick,” Vanya says, apparently taking up the commanding role in his leader’s absence.

  Despite his warning, I can’t resist the temptation to look. A furtive glance over my shoulder reveals that the two men are standing before the card table in the center of the room.

  A light has been switched on. The weak glow casts enough illumination to make out the two men’s features. One is gnarled, with graying black hair and a scar along his jaw. Vanya. The other is younger. A pair of glasses rests upon his Roman nose, and he’s wearing a suit that does its best to convey wealth, but the fit is poor. It’s not tailored. Stolen, a part of me suspects.

  That man places a briefcase upon the table which he opens. Even from this angle, I recognize the stacks of paper contained within. Money. A lot of money.

  A memory unfurls from the furthest reach of my consciousness, too quickly to fight. Cologne. Silk. Copper. That night Robert came to me, his face bloodied, a stack of bills clutched in his fist.

  “Shall we play a game?” he asked, knowing full well that I couldn’t refuse. “Tell me.” He threw the bloodied cash in my face while I remained seated on the bed. “What is real and what is not?”

  I learned a lesson then that remains with me to this day: Nothing is more important to a man than his money. Not women. Not drugs. Not family. Not even his soul.

  This Mischa must hoard it at the expense of everything else. By selling something?

  As Xavier removes stack after stack of dollars—American from what I can tell—Vanya approaches a cluster of cardboard boxes in one corner of the room. After assessing the cash, he hefts two boxes and brings them closer to the table.

  “They’re packed,” he explains as he sets the second box down. “Ready to ship. You can sell them at the going rate with a little bit of interest for the inconvenience of having to accommodate you directly.”

  Irritation flits across Xavier’s face almost too quickly to catch. “Fine,” he says, still removing stack after stack from his briefcase.

  As the growing pile continues to climb, I can’t help but stare. It’s more money than I’ve ever seen in one place. Even Robert never carries so much on him at one time. The obscene display betrays a more nefarious purpose, however. What on Earth could one box contain to be worth so much?

  I shy away from the answer
and face the wall. After a few more minutes, Xavier and Vanya seem to conclude their business. The former leaves, his briefcase in tow. I hear it swishing through the air at his side as he turns down that narrow outside hall. When he’s gone, Vanya just sighs. There’s a leathery hiss like that of paper being sorted, counted, and stored, though I never saw a safe.

  Just when I gather up the nerve to peek again, he calls to me. “You’d do best to forget what you saw. If you want to extend your life for however long you can, anyway.”

  I don’t dare turn away again. Instead, I study the wallpaper. The base is dark gray with leaves in a lighter print forming a simple design that crawls out in every which direction. Far, far away to the farthest reaches of the room.

  “I have to go,” Vanya says after a second’s silence. Something unspoken hides within his weary tone. A warning: Keep to yourself. Stare at the wall. “When I return…if…I’ll bring you something to eat.”

  But why? My welfare has to be at the bottom of his leader’s list. For whatever reason, he made this offer solely out of kindness. Or perhaps pity. One word he used rings ominously. If.

  If you are still alive.

  “Th-thank you,” I force myself to whisper regardless.

  Without bothering to respond, the man leaves, switching the light off and drenching me in shadow.

  CHAPTER 5

  I ’m alone for barely five minutes before the other men return. With quiet efficiency, they take up their vacated positions, and I’m ignored once again. Heeding Vanya’s warning, I don’t move from my kneeling position. I stare at the wall and count the seconds. It’s a familiar habit, though my surroundings differ from my room in Robert’s suite. The basic gist of the game never changes.

  Wait for the monster’s return. How long will this one take?

  Two hours? Four? By the sixth, biological concerns take precedence over psychological ones. My bladder aches, painfully full. Noises rumble from my stomach, clashing with the occasional murmured conversation from the men. The floor of the cage is lined only in crumpled newspaper that chafes against my contorted limbs. Using it for anything but padding is an uncomfortable dilemma to contemplate.