XV: (Fifteen) (War of Roses Book 1) Read online

Seconds crawl by until reluctant footsteps finally retreat down the hall. My heart aches in Vanya’s absence, hammering against the wall of my rib cage. But I can’t take my gaze off the knife.

  As if aware of that fact, Mischa crouches on one knee and brings the blade near my jawline. Sharpened metal tickles my cheek, stinging. Slicing. All the while, his eyes stare into mine, hunting down the confessions I haven’t voiced.

  “Who. Are. You? Not an innocent after all? One of their spies?”

  An answer is on the tip of my tongue. No one. My lips twitch to voice it. Too late.

  Those amber irises darken with violent intent, but I only see his arm twitch before…pain! I instinctively clutch the side of my face with one hand as my brain struggles to process the sensations battling for attention. Burning. Searing. Wide-eyed, I watch scarlet drops dribble onto my chest. My thighs. The floor.

  “I just lost three men because of you,” Mischa warns, sounding miles away. His tone has changed in a heartbeat. There’s no anger. Just grim acceptance that conveys the inevitable. He’ll do it now. Kill me. “Answer me.”

  The knife grazes my throat next, biting deeper when I flinch.

  “P-please.” I don’t recognize the plaintive voice that comes out of me. I don’t know why I resist him at all. Dying would be easier than suffering him. Dying would be preferable to returning to Robert.

  Though maybe not. Barely a day from Winthorp manor and something I thought I’d never feel again floods my veins. It’s weak, hardly strong enough to outlast the fear, but still there. Survival.

  “My name is Ellen—”

  “I don’t give a damn about your name,” Mischa growls, and the knife cuts deeper. More burning. Stinging.

  A whimper escapes my throat, but nothing registers over his features. No pity. No humanity. Nothing.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Ellen Winthorp,” I stammer through the pain. “Ellen Winthorp.”

  The blade stills. Withdraws. “How?”

  Shaking, I force myself to meet his gaze directly. More tears sting my eyes and I let them fall, forsaking any attempts to hide the truth. “I…I am Robert’s wife.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Robert’s wife. I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud. At least not to another person. In my old world, they would have been met with something akin to pity and decorum. A tight nod perhaps. Or maybe a sympathetic pat on my hand. Not disgust. Not revulsion so potent that I taste it on my tongue.

  “His wife?” He mulls the title over, deciding within an instant that it must be a lie. His pupils constrict menacingly. “Robert Sr. has no wife—”

  “Not him.” I shake my head, too tired to specify.

  “His son?”

  I just nod.

  “You’re lying.”

  My body stiffens at his tone, but I’m not quick enough to cower beyond his reach. He grabs me, his fingers clenching the back of my scalp, twisting through my hair.

  “He doesn’t have a wife, either. And I doubt that he would let her be used as a decoy.”

  It’s a question I haven’t let myself think on. Has Robert grown tired of me? Or has his father finally sought to put an end to his son’s obsession?

  Both scenarios are equally alarming.

  “You wear no ring,” Mischa adds, jerking his chin toward my naked hand. “I know of every goddamn Winthorp for generations, and I’ve never heard your name before.”

  “I-I’m not…approved.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. The only explanation that doesn’t require divulging the full truth. Perhaps I’m not that desperate to live after all? Some wounds aren’t worth reopening. Some horrors can’t be faced alone.

  Regardless, the answer seems to satisfy my captor. He frowns, and I can tell from the grudging set to his jaw that he’ll believe that much at least: that the defiant son of Robert Winthorp Sr. would take a wife without his notorious father’s permission. After all, there is one undisputable fact this night has proven.

  “He sent his men after you,” Mischa says, obviously annoyed by what he can’t explain. Something bright and terrible flits across his gaze, illuminating the irises. Before I can blink, the knife returns. “He’s willing to kill for you. And you shall return to him in pieces.”

  Pain! Fire sears through my skull: the result of another cut slicing right through the first. Instinct takes hold of my body. I try to turn away, but his free hand grips my scalp tighter, holding me in place while he raises the blade again. He lets me see the tip of it, painted red with my blood. Then he lashes out, piercing the meat of my cheek, down my jaw.

  “You are number fifteen,” he tells me over my whimper.

  Somehow, I’m still fully aware as he makes another cut, angled toward the first. God, it hurts—just like he wants it to. He takes his time, slicing through flesh bit by bit. And I see lightning. My eyes flood and overflow. I’m shaking in his grip as air escapes my lungs in a pathetic, wheezing gasp.

  “The fifteenth martyr in a blood war,” he continues, his voice wavering.

  At first, I assume it’s because I’m delirious. Dizzy. But no… I see his throat jerk as he swallows hard. There’s an unsteadiness to his grip that I didn’t notice before—I’m not shaking on my own.

  “You may be an innocent in this, but I will kill you, Ellen Winthorp,” he promises me, negating any suspicion that what he feels might be guilt. No. He’s resigned to my murder. “But not yet.”

  He pushes me to the floor and leaves me here, bleeding over the carpet. I count his footsteps as they fade somewhere deeper inside the house. When that sound trails off…I count my heartbeat.

  “Do not hate him.” Vanya insists as he dabs at the blood from my face with a wadded piece of cloth.

  Is he speaking to me or himself? I can’t tell. I’m not sure when the older man returned to find me, bleeding and broken, either. All I know is partial relief as he treats my wounds.

  “It’s not you he hates. He wasn’t always this way,” he admits almost reluctantly. “There was a time when he’d never… Do not hate him.”

  Is hate what I feel for the newest monster to mutilate my body? I’m not sure. Maybe I just don’t care enough to define it. Every man has a story to explain away the demons that eventually consume him. I’ve learned the history of one. I’m not keen to learn another.

  But more than his violence troubles Vanya about his leader. Frowning, he draws the cloth away and reaches for a pack of gauze. Inside is a square piece of bandage, which he places over my left cheek and secures with tape. Then he sighs. “You are my responsibility,” he says, changing the subject. “I do not want to bind you. Or lock you in the cage.”

  I can’t swallow my sigh of relief. “Thank—”

  “But,” he says over me, “I will if I have to. What you do reflects on me. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” He stands, wincing once he’s on his feet. From this angle, it’s not hard to see why. Blood cakes the side of his face near his ear.

  Something soft strikes my fingers and I look down and find that I’ve reached for the cloth without realizing it. When I start to stand, Vanya says nothing. He simply watches as I raise the fabric in a trembling fist and dab it along his ear. He’s too tall. I have to stand on tiptoe to clean the wound properly. Underneath all the blood is only a hairline scratch, caused by glass I presume.

  Rather than thank me, Vanya snatches the cloth and tosses it aside. Then he gathers up the rest of his supplies and heads for the doorway. “You’ll stay in here. I’ll try to find you a blanket, but I suggest you make do until then. I’ll keep watch outside the door. Get some sleep.”

  Gratitude renders me speechless. By the time I remember how to speak, he’s already gone, closing the door to the room after him. Unless my ears play tricks, I hear the lock engage. Oddly enough, I feel safer here than at any other point in this nightmare. I don’t care to decipher the reasons for his kindness. Maybe they’re entirely selfish, as
Mischa insinuated.

  Still…

  No matter how small, the mercy is rare enough to be cherished.

  At least without wondering how long it may last.

  V ibrations draw me awake. Footsteps? Gasping, I open my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling and a chillingly familiar silhouette.

  “I changed my mind,” Mischa declares. “Get up.”

  He heads for the door, leaving me to follow. Limping, I struggle to keep up before he can issue a threat not to fall behind. Pale daylight spills in through the window, illuminating part of the narrow hall while leaving the rest of the house bathed in shadow.

  It’s older than the last one, with rotting floorboards and a smaller floorplan. The men seem to be spread throughout rather than grouped in one room. They keep their guns close and linger near windows. Searching.

  Up a rickety staircase are two rooms. I spy a bed in one, but I’m herded toward another. Small and confined, the space contains a card table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Black sheets shroud the windows, and a single lamp in the corner casts dingy yellow light.

  “Sit.” Mischa nods his chin toward the metal folding chair closest to me.

  Aware of him watching my every move, I lower myself slowly, keeping my gaze trained on my imminent surroundings. There is nothing else in this room. In fact, it appears to have no purpose other than this: silence, isolation.

  “Look at me, Ellen Winthorp.”

  He’s seated across from me. Shadows distort his features, making his eyes seem darker, his face narrower. Hollow.

  Without warning, he reaches toward me, sliding a finger along the gauze taped to my cheek. “Have you seen your face?”

  There’s a taunt tucked into the question. Beneath the bandage, the wound sears, reacting to his nearness. One of his knuckles deliberately nudges the area that feels the deepest and I hiss in response.

  “Take the bandage off.”

  My fingers shake as I obey, carefully undoing Vanya’s handiwork.

  “Look.” He places something on the table and shoves it toward me. A mirror, small and round, with a crack in the glass.

  I lift it, seeking enough light to make out my reflection. A haunted ghost stares back, her blue eyes wide and empty. Blood coats the left side of her face, running in rivulets down her throat. I swallow hard at the sight, but that’s not what he wanted me to see.

  It’s the shape of the wound. Careful. Intentional. I have to tilt my jaw to make it out fully. From beneath my eye all the way down to my jaw, he carved an X. Beside it, extending toward my ear, is a jaggedly sliced letter V. The nonsensical doodles of a madman?

  I almost assume as much until I recall what he said. You are number fifteen. XV. He marked my fate in Roman numerals. If I live long enough for the wounds to heal, they will leave scars proclaiming my fate forever.

  “Look at me.”

  I lower the mirror and find him watching me. There’s no hiding beneath his gaze. Heat wells behind my eyes and spills out. Each tear sinks into the rent skin, setting the flesh on fire. I don’t turn away from him or try to disguise the pain, however. I let him see it.

  And he should relish this moment. His jaw clenches as he tracks the descent of every drop of moisture. Every wince. Does it justify his hatred? Feed his rage? For once, I can’t tell.

  “How did you meet your husband?”

  I look down, recoiling from that word. Husband. The action irritates my captor.

  He seizes my chin. “Look at me.” He jerks my face toward his, tightening his grip so that I have no choice but to meet his gaze. Emptiness stares back.

  I always thought Robert had no soul, but even he could feign humanity when he wanted to. What do you think I’d do without you, Ellen? he’d growl every now and then. You keep me sane. Don’t you fucking see?

  “Answer me, Little One.” My new tormentor has had to repeat himself. Irritation sparks from those fathomless irises, prickling my skin. “Your husband. How did you meet him? I know Robert has a fondness for whores.”

  I stifle my reaction to the insinuation. Whore. If only. At least, then, I would have earned something from my endeavor. I could have justified it.

  “I grew up in Winthorp manor,” I say. Speaking hurts. Even the slightest movement of my jaw triggers more wet warmth to drip onto my collar.

  “As a maid?” Mischa questions.

  Still restrained by his grip on my chin, I nod.

  “Really?” He lets me go and rises to his feet, circling toward my side with effortless speed. He has the knife again and lowers the blade so that I can see it, cleaned from the night before and ready to inflict more damage. “Lie to me again, Ellen, and your pretty face will be nothing more than a painful memory. Understand?”

  “Y-yes—”

  “Then tell me who you are. Really.”

  “I-I wasn’t lying,” I insist. “I did grow up in the manor.”

  “But as a maid?”

  “N-not officially—”

  “Don’t mince words with me.” His fingers flex against the knife’s handle in a warning. “If not a maid, then as what?”

  I run through those memories, trying to put my role into words that don’t sting. Something that doesn’t require further questioning.

  “My mother was…close to the Winthorps. When she died, they kept me around as Briar’s companion.” I hold my breath as he digests that explanation.

  Relief renders me boneless when his hand finally withdraws.

  “And?” he presses.

  “When I grew older, Robert…noticed me.” My throat tightens and I leave it at that. Not even the threat from the blade can draw out more.

  Thankfully, Mischa doesn’t seem to give a damn either way. Robert. That name acts as a trigger to whatever evil lurks within him. His face becomes that fearsome mask once again, reducing him to more monster than human.

  “And you married him?” He stands back, watching me with an expression I can’t decipher. Disgust?

  Or something more terrifying: suspicion.

  “Stepanov,” he says quietly. “Do you know that name?”

  I shake my head.

  “Really?” The man lifts an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’ve never heard your husband say it?”

  “He doesn’t talk about business around me.”

  “Oh?” Two heavy footsteps bring him closer. Slowly, he sinks to his knees, down to my level. “What about the Mafiya? The Pakhan? Do those ring a bell?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks when I shake my head, but it’s not a smile.

  “What about…” He leans in close, allowing his breath to nuzzle my bleeding wounds. When I shiver, he trails his thumb along my cheek and withdraws it, painted red. “What about Anna-Natalia Vasilieva? Does that name ring a bell?”

  I jump instinctively. There’s no hiding it. I’m sure the memory that name triggers unfolds across my face just as strongly as it does in my mind.

  It was so long ago that I shouldn’t be able to recall her so clearly. She was thin. Small. Her hair was long and dark, like Vanya’s might have been once. Her upturned eyes were a delicate shade of brown.

  And she was in chains.

  “I only saw her once.”

  There’s no point in lying to him. He knows. There’s something predatory in him that hunts through my pain, drawing the truth out whether I like it or not. Maybe it’s what I think I find lurking beneath all the hate and rage. Desperation?

  Do not hate him, Vanya insisted. He wasn’t always this way.

  “Where?” His tone makes me suspect he already knows the answer.

  “Winthorp Manor,” I croak through my pain. “Robert Sr. had her…in a basement. I was young. Maybe seven? His son had me bring her water—”

  “Why?” He slams his fist against the table out of anger more than emphasis. Again, he already knows the answer.

  Tasting blood, I tell him. “I don’t know—”

  “Did you see her die?”

  I blink, thrown off by the qu
estion. Do you need to see the killing blow to witness someone die? Not necessarily. Death can be a slow process, tracked only by a steady change in your reflection day after day. Or a look in the eye. I picture the woman, Anna-Natalia. Was she dead then, huddled in chains at the mercy of the Winthorps?

  “N-no—”

  “Do you want to hear how they did it?”

  My heart hammers against my chest as I shake my head emphatically. No. They butchered her, he claims. I’ve seen firsthand what Robert does to animals for sport. He hunts them. Guts them. He shows them no mercy.

  Mischa comes in close so that his words slither directly into my ear. “They slit her throat. Then they cut off her hands and sent them to her father in a box. She was sixteen.”

  I gag at the imagery. Those beautiful eyes open and unseeing. Her pain. Her fear.

  “Her body, they dumped into the river. Unlike you, she was an innocent in this. She was number twelve.”

  Twelve. A martyr in a blood war, he said. But the only wars I knew of were the internal ones raging through the Winthorp estate. Father against son. Brother against sister. Gossip. Intrigue. Jealousy. Anna-Natalia Vasilieva never cracked the dinner table chatter.

  In fact… The only figure to ever intrude upon the sanctity of the manor was a boy who snuck into my room in the dead of night. His eyes burned through the darkness, his voice a hiss. Even then, so young, I knew he’d kill me. There was a knife in his hand and murder in his soul.

  Though, for whatever reason, that monster let me go.

  But I don’t tell Mischa that. Something he said keeps echoing in my thoughts, intriguing me enough to voice it. “T-twelve?”

  He frowns at my pathetic attempts at probing. Still, he tosses me a bone. “Your husband’s family has a long list of sins, Little One,” he tells me. “A very long list. We keep track of the victims related by blood.” Almost gingerly, he fingers a piece of my hair, lifting it for inspection in the dim lighting. I don’t expect the moment he tugs hard, drawing a whine from my lips. “But his transgressions are nothing compared to mine.” He returns to his full height and kicks the leg of my chair. “Get up.”