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

  “So that I can understand you,” I gasp out to an ant crawling, inches from my cheek. It jolts and changes direction, scurrying away. “All I want is to understand you.”

  It’s the only way I will ever beat him at his own game.

  “Love?” Mischa echoes. He steps into me, fanning his hands out over my waist. “I’ll tell you a little secret: It’s pain, Rose. It’s wanting someone so fucking much—but you don’t know why. It’s feeling them crawl beneath your goddamn skin. They’re in your head. In your skull. Laughing at you. Taunting you. You want to love?” He laughs and each unsteady cackle sears the flesh of my jaw. “I could fucking drown you in it—”

  Nearby, a branch cracks, presumably snapped underfoot, and Mischa pulls away.

  “I can hear you,” he calls out to the creeping figure. Grabbing my wrist, he tugs me along as he picks his way between the trees. “Slow down,” he warns, stopping short. He cocks his head, letting his ear pick up the slightest noise. “That’s it. Get your bearings. I still haven’t spotted you. Use this to your advantage. Don’t panic. Think.”

  I strain my eyes, hunting for any hint of what he’s sensing. The seconds trickle by painfully slow, but I don’t catch a glimpse of her. Apparently, neither does Mischa.

  “Good!” His laugh booms out proudly, a mark of approval. “Very good.” He resumes his prowling stance and inches forward. “Now, let’s see how long you can keep it up…”

  Chapter 4

  We hunt for her long after the early morning stretches into the afternoon. If Mischa has more pressing business to attend to, he doesn’t let on. So intent on his lesson, he doesn’t seem to notice the passage of time.

  Finally, he places his hand on my shoulder, motioning for me to stay back. Alone, he stalks to a nearby tree, barely making a sound over the brambles.

  “There you are!” He lunges forward and reaches around the trunk. “Found you—”

  His snatching fingers come up empty, however. He frowns at them, his eyebrows furrowing. Then, almost in comically slow motion, an acorn falls from a higher branch, hitting him squarely in the middle of his forehead.

  He jerks back, looking up.

  And at that exact moment, a grinning Mouse unfurls herself from a twisted thicket of branches.

  Mischa’s expression ripples, eerily stern. Then he laughs and claps his hands. “Good! Very good.” Still clapping, he watches her climb down and then ruffles her hair. “Much better.”

  Mouse grins. Very carefully, she opens one of her fists, revealing the flower tucked against her palm. If she were one to gloat, I can imagine what she might say. I win.

  “Show-off.” Mischa’s upper lip twitches, resisting the smile that transforms his mouth regardless. “Now, come. We should get back before Ivan starts grumbling.”

  Skipping ahead, Mouse leads the way through the trees, back to the house.

  As predicted, Vanya greets us near the front door, his lips pursed. How long has he been watching us from afar? I can’t tell.

  Neither can I decipher if he recalls our conversation from last night. His gaze flits over me before settling on the figure prancing nearby.

  “You’re a mess,” he grumbles to Mouse, beckoning her inside. “Come on. I’ll get you something to eat, and then it’s back to bed.” To Mischa, he inclines his head respectfully. “The perimeter is still secure according to the men. Sergei wasn’t lying. But…” He cuts his gaze in my direction. Then he shrugs, deeming me worthy to hear his concerns. “I don’t like it. I say we move as soon as possible. It will be risky, but—”

  “When haven’t I been up for a risk?” Mischa finishes for him. “Make the preparations. We can move out in the morning.”

  “As you wish.” Nodding, Vanya reenters the house.

  I start to follow, but Misha grabs my wrist before I can slip past him.

  “Wait. It’s time for another game,” he says, his voice grated. “I’m not in the mood for flower picking, so consider yourself the prize.” He shoves me toward a section of forest. “So run.”

  I stagger forward, maneuvering as quickly as I can over the uneven terrain. There’s no way I can outrun him. As my knees buckle, I haul myself behind the nearest tree and wait. Anticipation wracks my spine, heightening the hiss of every swaying branch and rustling leaf.

  “Child’s play,” Mischa hisses, advancing at a lazy pace. He doesn’t even try to hide the sound of his footsteps, which crunch sticks and undergrowth with every step. “If you make it this easy, then what is the fucking point?”

  A million familiar sensations curdle in my stomach. Caught. Trapped. Helpless. Hopeless. Sighing, I lean against the bark, impatient for the inevitable.

  Almost as if my hiding place is mocking my cowardice, something falls from a branch and lands at my feet. Small. Round. An acorn. My eyes fixate on its brown surface as Mischa’s advice to Mouse replays in my head: Don’t panic. Think.

  I can’t outsmart him for long—but he’s a wolf. Predators like him don’t expect their prey to fight back.

  “Found you,” he hisses paces from my hiding spot. So smug in his capture, he doesn’t attempt to hide his attack; a shadow rushing toward me warns the second he reaches out.

  So I pivot in the opposite direction.

  “Where are you—” His back is to me now.

  I’m the wolf, and my attack comes swiftly: I lunge. Before I can reach him, he twists around with feline grace. But he’s too late. Grunting, he’s forced to catch me by the waist, but he can’t defend from the palm I press against the center of his chest.

  “Bang,” I tell him coldly, meeting his widening gaze. “You’re dead.”

  I expect him to shove me off. Or, better yet, leave me here in an exhausted heap. I’m so tired of fighting him at every turn.

  But rather than let me go, he grips me tighter, moving his face near mine until they touch. Cheek to cheek. We share the same twisted breath.

  “This is why you are more dangerous than the Winthorps and their army combined,” he murmurs, digging his fingers into my hips for emphasis. “You are reckless. Nothing is sacred to you. You’ll burn your enemies and yourself down in the same fucking blaze. Even the most sick, twisted bastards aren’t that cruel.”

  An amusing thought comes to me, and I voice it near his ear. “Does that scare you?”

  A harsh grunt catches in his throat. He sets me down but then captures my chin, forcing me to look up. His gaze bores through mine with a predatory accuracy. From this assault, there is no escape.

  And I know now that his “game” has nothing at all to do with hide-and-seek.

  “Look at me.” His irises darken, a piercing, unsettling shade of black. “Tell me… Tell me how it feels when I’m inside you.”

  “W-what?” My cheeks catch fire at the crude request. Another sick joke? But no. His eyes are too open, meeting my probing stare unflinchingly.

  “You heard me.” He wants an answer, and my throat rasps as I try to compile one.

  “It feels like sex—”

  “No.” His thumb swipes at my lower lip, dismissing the response. “Don’t play coy. You were upset last night—but you came to me. I want to know why.”

  His expression shifts, and I catch a glimpse of the stranger I’ve only ever seen with Mouse. The exhausted man with shadows beneath his eyes. Worn lines distort the skin around his mouth, and his voice is so much clearer than the rough grumble I’m used to. Panicked, I realize it’s his most lethal weapon, this guttural hum.

  “Tell me—”

  “Too much.” I close my eyes against his judgment, but I can’t seem to make myself stop talking. “You feel too big. Like all you want to do is rip me open, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I…I don’t want to stop it…” I sway as his grip loosens. But bit by bit, it tightens again, drawing me closer.

  “Why?” he demands. “Tell me.”

  “When you kiss me… I can’t think. And I don’t want to.”

  I doubt he understands ju
st how dangerous an admission that is. In my entire life, my only saving grace was my ability to think. Override my body’s natural instincts. Endure.

  Until now.

  “It feels real,” I whisper, horrified. “I can’t ignore it. I can’t suppress it. What you do to me feels so damn real—”

  Moist heat rips my voice from me. His mouth—I’ve memorized the shape. It conforms to mine like nothing else, designed to overpower and subdue. Claim. One teasing brush of his tongue and my thoughts empty of anything tangible. All I can do is cling to him, pawing at his shoulders for purchase.

  I’m vaguely aware that he’s moving, backing me against the very same tree I attacked him from. Viciously, his hands sink into my hair, gripping tight as he draws back, breaking the kiss.

  “I’ll give it to him,” he says, laughing in a broken, hollow series of grunts. “If you really are a skilled fucking spy—a trick… Then I have to hand it to him. I give in.” His eyes meet mine again, unfocused and crazed. Truly insane. “You’ve fucking done it. He’s won. I’m a pathetic fucking idiot. So here—” He grinds his pelvis into mine. “Savor your victory, Rose.”

  Savor. I run my hands down his chest, the planes of it rippling beneath the thin layer of cotton. In the darkness, I can’t see the skin bared beneath as he wrenches it up over his head and tosses it aside. I have to feel every inch for myself.

  Raw. Powerful. Broken and healed in some places, still wounded and sore in others. He lets me have my fill of tracing every inch of his armor. I barely even notice when his hands slip beneath my dress, ruthlessly turning the tables.

  “You’re so damn wet.” He hisses that assessment even before his fingers dip between my legs, finding his boast to be true. “You have to be a fucking trick,” he declares, breaching me with the pad of his thumb. “There’s no other way…”

  He doesn’t elaborate. Once again, our conversation devolves into the unspoken. Grasping touches that convey more than words ever could. Slow, rasping breaths when he yanks his pants down and eases his way inside me.

  My eyes flutter shut at the sensation.

  “Tell me now,” he snarls into my neck. “Tell me.”

  “You feel…”

  He slows, panting against my throat. “Say it.” Impatient, he thrusts again, utilizing his body like a battering ram.

  I’m no match for him. “You feel so good,” I whimper. “So, so good.”

  He groans, forging a frantic rhythm within seconds. Savor my victory, he told me, but there’s no time. No chance. He overdoses me on his touch, taste—everything all at once.

  “Beautiful Little Rose,” he taunts as I shatter. “You win. You win. But I’ll play your game: I’ll drag you down with me. I’ll destroy you—we’ll both go up in flames.”

  And he breaks me, leaving me in pieces against the rough, unyielding bark.

  But in the aftermath of him, I’ve never felt clearer.

  And I’ve never felt more powerful.

  Chapter 5

  We redress in silence and return to the house just as the moon rises to its highest point in the sky. Vanya still waits by the front door, watchfully eyeing the dark. As we slip inside, he casts us both a searching glance.

  Once again, his gaze skims over me and settles on someone else.

  “Mischa.” He places his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “We need to talk—”

  “If this is about leaving, I agree,” Mischa says, shoving me through the doorway ahead of him. “We move out early. I’ll take the lead. You pick up the rear and then we’ll regroup—”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Vanya sighs and I catch his gaze dart down the hall leading deeper into the house. “There is something—”

  “What?” Mischa strokes his chin. “Are you worried about Sergei? Maybe we shouldn’t inform the old man just yet. Not until we have a clear route.”

  “I have a suggestion.” That voice…

  My shock matches Mischa’s as none other than Sergei appears at the mouth of the hall.

  “Speak of the devil,” Mischa growls under his breath. His grip on my arm tightens and I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

  “Sorry to intrude,” the older man says, though his expression reveals no ounce of guilt. He approaches us at a cautious pace, dressed head to toe in a practical black outfit that sets him apart from Mischa’s filthy fatigues. “But I think it will be more prudent if a group of my men leads the way. Then you can follow. With Winthorp on the prowl, you should center your retreat around his biggest target.”

  “Oh?” Mischa raises an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

  “Who,” Sergei corrects, turning to me. “Her.”

  “And let me guess. That biggest threat will stay with you?”

  “No.” Sergei shakes his head, raising his hands in a subtle sign of surrender. “I’ll go with my men.”

  The two men eye each other, tension crackling between them.

  “It’s a good plan, Mischa,” Vanya pipes up. He moves, positioning himself between his brother and his surrogate son. “I say we use his method and move out tomorrow night. That will give us time to plan a safe route.”

  “Fine.” Eyes flashing, Mischa flexes his arm, dragging me closer to his side. “But she will stay with me and you will lead the way.”

  “Fair enough.” Sergei nods. “As Ivan suggested, we can move tomorrow night, before the sun rises.”

  “Fine.” Mischa releases me and barges deeper into the house, barking out orders.

  Seemingly from nowhere, his men converge on the narrow space, pushing the limits of the cottage to their max. Once Mischa’s plan is relayed in detail, they disperse to carry out their given orders and I can feel their leader’s eyes on me as I make my way to the stairs.

  “Wait.”

  I stiffen with one foot braced on the lower step. He takes his time coming up behind me. His finger teasingly ghosts my cheek before his entire hand pulls a lock of hair back from my face.

  “Look at me.”

  He’s frowning when I do, scanning my gaze. For what? I’m not sure. Only that the hunt for it hollows his features, and the line of his mouth is tighter as he turns away.

  “Go run up to bed, Little Rose,” he commands. “Maybe if you pray hard enough, the monsters will stay out of it tonight.”

  I obey, racing up the stairs. Once inside my small room, I find myself paralyzed by the sight of the rumpled bed, its blankets strewn all over the floor.

  In the end, I brace my back against the wall and sink down to my knees, forsaking the comfort of the mattress.

  The cold floor, with its covering of dust, is more welcome than any ounce of softness containing his scent.

  Even if it means I suffer.

  A groan escapes my lips as I open my eyes to the dim glow of dawn filtering in through the room’s only window. Already, I thoroughly regret my decision to forsake the bed. My legs throb when I attempt to stand, and I have to ease myself upright, using the wall like a makeshift ladder.

  Sighing, I eye my filthy clothing and make a halfhearted trip around the room in search of anything else to wear.

  So much for the new Ellen. Gone are my handpicked clothes, lost in the flames that consumed Mischa’s manor.

  Unsurprisingly, I find nothing here, which leaves only one other course of action to feel somewhat cleaner.

  I steel myself as I approach the door and palm the knob. When I finally gather the nerve to push it open, I don’t find any madmen lurking beyond it.

  But I do discover a bathroom not far from my hideaway. It’s small but contains a tub at least. Despite a circle of rust around the drain, the plumbing seems to be in working order.

  After stripping my clothing, I climb inside and run the water as hot as I can stand it. Then I huddle in the center of the basin and struggle to find some semblance of peace. It’s surprisingly easy. As the heat sinks into my limbs and licks away the grime on my skin, I rest my head against the rim of the tub and close my
eyes.

  A sudden thud cuts my reprieve short. The door opens, slamming against the wall, and the source of my unease enters.

  I lurch upright, shielding my breasts with trembling hands. “What are you doing?”

  Mischa scoffs, eyeing my body as boldly as if he owns every inch. “Don’t tell me a haughty woman of your esteem plans to wear the same dirty clothing.” He extends his hand, revealing a wad of material I didn’t notice before. Fabric? He unfolds it for my inspection: a thick, gray shirt like the kind Mouse wore the other day.

  But I doubt it will fit me as well as it fit her.

  “Don’t stick your nose up just yet,” Mischa warns. Up until now, he was obscuring another garment behind his back: a pair of black pants. “I took these from the smallest man in my crew, but I doubt they’ll fit you well enough. You’ll just have to make do.”

  He tosses both garments onto the floor near the tub.

  “Thank you,” I croak, surprised despite myself. It’s like he read my mind. Though maybe he can? He scans my features as easily as one would an open book.

  “Thank me? For ensuring that you don’t get the idea to walk around naked and tempt my men into doing your bidding?”

  I scoff and turn my attention to my limbs. Steam rises from the basin of the tub as my legs redden in the heat.

  “Doesn’t it exhaust you?” I wonder. “Being so damn paranoid?”

  A sound escapes his throat, but I can’t decipher it. A laugh?

  “Paranoid? I call it prudent.” He turns from me and lifts his shirt over his head, tossing it to his feet.

  My eyes scan his body appreciatively before I can help it. His tattoos gleam, melding with his healing scrapes and wounds. The man is a canvas of darkness and blood. If I believed in demons, I’d wholeheartedly insist he was one. Sin in the flesh.

  “See something you like?” he wonders.

  Licking my lips, I croak, “What are you doing?”

  “Are you the only one allowed to be clean?” He braces his hands over the rusty sink and leans in toward the mirror, observing his reflection. Whatever he finds makes him turn away and fish a rag from beneath the sink. After sniffing it, he shrugs. Apparently, it’s clean enough.