VII (Seven) Page 7

  Do not fear him. He wasn’t always this way…

  A flickering shadow draws my notice as I turn into the entryway. Mischa?

  The figure lunges before I can be sure. Air whistles past my head, and then… Pain. Darkness rushes me, swallowing my vision. A faraway thud echoes as my vision goes white. It’s like my senses scatter in a million directions. I feel air. Hardness. Coldness.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter 10

  “Wake up!”

  Agony rips through my chest, drawing a gasp from my throat. Cool, damp air settles on my face—I must be lying on my back. My head throbs, and my hip is on fire.

  “I said wake up,” someone snarls. “You little bitch! Look at me!”

  My eyelids flutter as I struggle to piece together my surroundings.

  Wherever I am, it’s dark. Faint light glosses over the hazy outlines of various shapes. One mass in particular looms over me. Tall. Bulky. A man.

  But his voice…

  It’s not Mischa’s.

  “I said look at me!” Harsh fingers seize my chin, wrenching my gaze toward the figure. His face is familiar. Older. Stern. Dark hair.

  A name flickers on the outskirts of my consciousness as a memory of him replays in my head. Him, sitting across from Mischa in a crowded room, while his son, Kostas, was declared a traitor.

  “Nikolaus,” another man scolds, though I don’t recognize his gruffer tone. “If you’re going to kill her, do it already. We need to dump her body before Mischa realizes she’s gone. Dima said he kept her close. Too fucking close—”

  “Kill her?” Nikolaus echoes, his teeth bared. “I’m going to make this little bitch suffer!”

  “Use your head,” the other man interjects. “I get you want your revenge. But do you really want to fuck with Mischa? That motherfucker will have your head on a spike. Kill her quickly and he won’t be able to tie it to you.”

  “Revenge?” Nikolaus shakes his head. “No!” Grunting, he kicks my hip, knocking me onto my side.

  From this angle, I can only watch the muddied tips of his boots move in tandem. Every step echoes, and the air smells damp. Dank. A basement?

  I strain my eyes to make out any defining details—and I barely see Nikolaus’s foot shoot out to kick me again. Hard. I choke back the scream surging up my throat, but a moan trickles out regardless. Breathing is the only way to regain my composure. In and out…

  “This little bitch got my son turned into a fucking cripple,” Nicolai rants between heavy pants. “I’m going to rip her apart and drench that whelp Mischa in her fucking blood.”

  Crippled? Just what did Mischa do to him? Nausea roils through my stomach at the grisly possibilities—I don’t want to know.

  “Do you know who this bitch is? Who she is really?” Nikolaus laughs, nudging my hip with the tip of his boot. “She was closer to the younger Winthorp than your precious Pakhan let on. Much closer. I know for a fact the bastard wants her back. Rumor is he even offered to trade his sister to Mischa. For this little cunt!”

  Another blow draws a groan from my lips, which drowns out whatever he says next. A deafening surge of blood rushes against my eardrums. Bright colors paint my vision. Reds. Greens. Silvers.

  Your ribs are broken, a small voice inside me whispers. That’s why each breath burns, taking ten times the usual effort.

  “I’m not going to kill her,” Nikolaus says, his voice drifting back into focus. “I’m going to teach that bastard Mischa why he should never turn on his own fucking kind.”

  Movement catches the corner of my eye. His boot. As if from miles away, I hear the stomach-churning crack of it connecting with something. Crunching.

  Heat runs down my spine like a lance. Fire. My vision swims and tunnels; then all senses fade. The terrifying beauty of it is that I feel nothing—even though I’m painfully aware that one of my legs is dragging behind me as I try in vain to crawl away from the source of the assault. The scream that rips from me is more involuntary than anything—my body knows that something is horribly wrong.

  “Run, you little bitch,” Nikolaus goads as I scrape at the concrete floor in a desperate bid for leverage.

  My senses blur and memories meld into the present. I’m with Robert again. He went too far. Again. He’s toying with me—again.

  Running from him will only buy me seconds. I need to plead. Beg. Lie at his mercy and pray to God that he’ll stop. Please stop! My lips are already moving to form the words.

  “That fucking Mischa thinks he can treat my family like a whipped dog?”

  Crunch. Crunch! The veil that shielded my nerves from pain gives way and I feel everything. Fire, burning agony…

  My thoughts threaten to scatter the second I attempt to focus on it. So I don’t. Mischa. His name is like a trigger to all the emotions forbidden to Robert’s precious Elle. Hate. Rage. Survival. Above my thudding heartbeat, I can sense that Nikolaus is close, pacing once again.

  I try to stand but my limbs refuse to obey the commands my brain issues.

  So I crawl, dragging my limp form into a corner. We must be in a basement. The walls are gray gunmetal. Rectangular windows are set high above, revealing pitch-black darkness. In addition to Nikolaus, another man lurks near a shadowed doorway. I vaguely recognize him as well, but I can’t place him to a name. Another man from the mafiya gathering, maybe?

  “Enough,” he hisses out when Nikolaus makes his third trip around the room. “Kill her now. You’ve made your point, and you can laugh yourself to sleep at night when you relive getting one over on Mischa. But do it now—”

  “I’m fucking thinking!” Nikolaus tears his fingers through his hair, a wild smile shaping his lips. “Kill her? I could use the little bitch as proof. Mischa’s gone insane. This fucking feud. He’ll kill us all!”

  “He’ll kill you,” the other man interjects calmly. “If you don’t smarten up and take your chance. Who cares if she’s important to the Winthorp boy—”

  “He might pay for her,” Nikolaus muses, stroking his chin. “They say he killed his own father with his bare hands just to get her back. Nearly killed Mischa from what I hear—the bastard refused to give her up.”

  No. Confusion strikes like a freight train at full force. Killed his own father…

  The room spins. I can’t breathe. An image of a bloodied ring replaces the horrific reality before me, but in some ways, it’s so much worse.

  “We could sell her to that punk. Make a deal. Teach that bastard Mischa a lesson—”

  “He’ll kill you,” I hear myself croak. God, my voice is a rough, dry whisper. It takes everything I have to make it rise even an octave higher. “He’ll make you a deal. Then kill you anyway.”

  Both men turn their attention to me.

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” Nikolaus crosses the room in seconds. His hand lashes out and the world goes black.

  I taste blood. When my vision returns, I’m staring at the floor, clutching my jaw. I try to speak but every word comes out garbled.

  “Maybe the little bitch is right,” the other man says, oblivious to my attempts. “Either way, I say you kill her now. Get it over with.”

  “I’ll do what I fucking want!” Nikolaus shudders, wavering unsteadily on his feet. His eyes reconnect with mine and in them I find nothing. Just hollow emptiness. “I should fuck her,” he declares, his tone soft. “Mischa’s a jealous little prick. I’ll send her back to him. Say she came begging for it—”

  “Do you hear yourself, Nikolaus?” the other man asks, but he sounds more impatient than horrified.

  Instantly, I know he’s no protector. He’ll watch. He’ll wait.

  But I won’t be violated again. Not like this.

  “You couldn’t,” I rasp, barely intelligible. But Nikolaus cocks his head, laughing as he tries to decipher my words. “You’re…not…man enough.”

  My brain skips ahead, devising a plan utilizing the only weapon I have left: pride. There was one thing that could make Robert mo
re furious than anything else. One name when mentioned that could make him more skittish and doubtful than a teenage boy during his first encounter.

  I suspect that Nikolaus is no different. But where Robert feared his father’s presence, this man is terrified of another.

  “Mischa is twice the man you are.” The pathetic, broken creature speaking doesn’t even sound like me—she’s bolder than I ever was.

  “What did you say?” Nikolaus advances, his fingers curling.

  “I said you couldn’t even come close to him—”

  “Shut up!”

  Lightning. I see it. Taste it—coppery, wet warmth dripping off my tongue.

  “Look at me, you little cunt! You think you’ve handled a real fucking man?”

  My heart stutters as fabric tears nearby. Cold air assaults my body a second later.

  I’ve failed. Failed. He’s already crouching over me, spreading my legs apart.

  Breathe, a part of me whispers, clinging to my old mantra. You can survive this, Ellen. Just breathe...

  Or I can fight.

  My eyes stream as I crane my neck, repulsed by what I see. His pants are down, his palm clenching his cock. I override every instinct urging me to scream and I…

  Laugh. Loudly. Hard. I cackle mercilessly even as I lose feeling in my toes. Fingers. Arms. An invisible vise is tightening around my chest with every second. Blood floods my mouth.

  You’re dying, that honest voice in my soul hisses.

  When Nikolaus curses, I know I’ve succeeded in one aspect so far. Men like him can’t bear being taunted. They feed off fear and cowering.

  So I force my tongue to move and mock him instead. “I…was…wrong. You aren’t even a fraction of the man Mischa is.”

  How ironic that thinking of him anchors me when my thoughts fight to fade and my limbs grow heavier. Mischa, my tormentor. He’ll chase me into the grave.

  God, it’s like I fucking hear him. Shouting. Roaring…

  Pounding?

  A man groans amid a crunching thud of bone. Suddenly, Nikolaus is gone and someone new takes his place, crouched over me.

  “Look at me, Little Rose,” he demands, haloed by a wreath of wild, golden hair.

  My eyelids flutter. I’m dreaming.

  “Look at me. You fucking hear me? You can sink into the black. Think you can run from me… But you’ll die when I say you can, Ellen Winthorp. And I’m not done playing with your fucking soul just yet.”

  Chapter 11

  Numb limbs weigh me down in a sea of endless black. I feel nothing. Hear nothing…

  At least at first.

  Eventually, snippets of sound and scattered phrases puncture the silence.

  Broken ribs.

  Shattered femur.

  Broken ankle.

  Dying.

  Dying.

  “Open your eyes, Little Rose,” the devil growls.

  How fitting that my soul would be claimed by him.

  “Open your fucking eyes. I know you’re still in there. I’m waiting. So open your fucking eyes…”

  But even he can’t keep me grounded for long. My soul is tissue paper, caught between two unreachable worlds. One is bright and soft. It calls to me in delicate whispers.

  Come home.

  The other is dark, and painful, and loud. So damn loud. It snarls into my ear, increasingly incessant.

  “Look at me, Little Rose. Open your fucking eyes…”

  I long to sink into the warm light and forget the madness, and the torment, and the pain. So much fucking pain.

  Death is so quiet…

  But a world containing Mischa is impossible to ignore. He drags me back, bit by bit until sensation returns in agonizing snatches. I can’t move. I’m lying on my back, aware that I’m on a mattress. Light and shadow flicker behind my eyelids as people move nearby. Talking.

  “I thought I told you not to come in here?” a man scolds, but his tone is gentle. And familiar, though I’ve never heard it so hoarse. “You wanted to braid her hair again?”

  He pauses, but no one responds.

  “Fine,” the man says, sighing. “But you’re going to make her bald.”

  Me? My head throbs, but through the pain, I sense a gentle touch moving through my hair, gathering up various strands and carefully arranging them.

  “Don’t give me that look,” the man says, and I can finally put a name to that husky rasp. Mischa? “For a girl, you have an odd idea of what looks pretty. And you’re lucky I’m even letting you stay after what you did with the crayons—” He breaks off as if interrupted. Then he laughs. “Keep it up and I’m going to sell you right back to Nicolai.”

  Sell? I try lifting my eyelids. Moving. Speaking. Even breathing is a struggle. Mischa must have devised a new form of torture: sitting on my chest.

  “Don’t stay in here too long,” he warns amid the thud of heavy footsteps. “And no more fucking coloring.”

  He’s gone, but I’m not alone. Someone continues to stroke my hair, styling it with all the care that I used to take with Briar’s. Vanya?

  Again, I try opening my eyes. At first, I can only make out snippets of detail. White walls bathed in daylight. Crisp ivory sheets. A bulky, round shape that I think is my leg propped on a pillow.

  Straining with the effort, I manage to hold my eyes open long enough to acknowledge that I’m in a small room, on a bed positioned near a row of wide windows overlooking a swath of green. There’s a doorway up ahead, leading into shadow. Someone’s perched beside me on the mattress, partially visible: tiny legs sheathed in oversized pants and slender arms that go still the moment the figure must realize I’m awake.

  I’m jostled as the slender person in question leaps from the bed. In a blur, they race from the room. Pale. Blonde. The little girl from Nicolai’s.

  I try to sit up only to wheeze, my eyes watering as the pressure in my chest tightens. Mischa isn’t sitting on me after all. Vaguely, I remember being struck. Beaten. By Nikolaus.

  He broke my ribs, I think.

  And my leg. Both of them, it seems. One is encased in a bulky cast, propped upright, while a neat array of bandages covers the other. My blankets have been pulled back to reveal both, including the strange purple markings marring my cast. I scan them all, increasingly confused. One drawing consists of a lopsided smiley face. Another is of a crudely etched tree. And finally, a man with long, squiggly hair and exaggerated magenta eyes glares at me from the space near my ankle.

  I stiffen as someone approaches, traipsing down what I assume is a hallway. Two footsteps, one light and swift, the other heavy and slow.

  “What is it?” Mischa grumbles. “If you drew on the goddamn cast again, I swear I’ll—” He breaks off the second he rounds the corner, spotting me awake.

  By his side, leading him by the sleeve of his shirt is the girl from Nicolai’s.

  “I see.” Mischa’s expression falls into the stern mask I know so well. “Leave.” He wrenches his arm from the girl.

  Despite the authority lacing his tone, she lingers, watching me with wide, owl-like eyes.

  “Go,” he snarls more harshly, and she finally scurries off.

  Alone, my captor watches me with an unreadable gaze, and paranoia eats at my pain. How often has he lorded over me like this? Waiting for me to die. Daring me to.

  Silently, he advances. Outstretched fingers reach for my cheek, but I turn away, gritting my teeth. My jaw is so sore that a moan escapes when I don’t mean to do it.

  Mischa draws his hand back anyway, his eyes narrowing. Then he turns and leaves without a word.

  Chapter 12

  I must fall asleep. When I come to again, someone is spooning warm liquid against my lips, encouraging me to swallow.

  “Nice and easy,” they urge. Vanya.

  I fight through a layer of exhaustion to open my eyes, meeting his startled expression.

  “That’s it,” he praises as I sip from the spoon. “Now, just rest.”

  It’s so
easy to surrender to his care, letting myself drift off once again.

  When I open my eyes a second time, something is different. The pain has lessened, for one, and I can haul myself upright, bracing my trembling hands on either side of my body for balance. I’m alone as well. What I first mistook for a hospital room must be just another part of Mischa’s manor. I recognize the dreary lawn from the windows, and the furniture has the same stifling, ornate air to it.

  However, I’m on an unfamiliar bed from my usual mattress. Someone changed the sheets while I was out, exchanging the white ones for a softer gray. They changed me as well.

  Once… Years ago, Robert hit me harder than he meant to. I wound up in bed for weeks, forced to endure a painful recovery. Out of duty, or maybe guilt, Robert had an army of servants provide me with round-the-clock care.

  But none of them bathed my skin with scented soap. Or washed my hair so that it smelled faintly of fresh flowers. Or kept me so clean that I didn’t feel like an invalid.

  But I was. I am. A metal tray stands a few paces from the bed, complete with a steaming meal someone must have been in the process of feeding me. Memories return as cloudy, intangible snippets: soups and broths carefully poured down my throat while I was barely conscious.

  By Vanya? Only he would have the patience. The care.

  Only he would be so kind.

  Gratitude unlike anything I’ve ever felt swells in my chest, making it even harder to breathe. Nikolaus inflicted his damage well. I wonder if the bastard is in hell.

  Because he most certainly isn’t still alive. I’m sure of it, just as I’m sure that Mischa is watching me. I can’t see him yet, but I smell him. Lurking near the doorway maybe?

  After swiping my tongue along my dry lips, I croak, “I know you’re there.”

  God, I sound horrible. So pathetically weak. Pity must be what makes him drop his ruse and finally round the edge of the doorway.

  My eyes widen at his appearance. It has to have been days since I last saw him. The stubble growing in along his jaw is thicker. Scraggly. Unkempt. His hair is a messy, unwashed tangle, his clothing a pair of faded fatigues.