by Lana Sky
One of them grabs Anna while another races toward me. Seconds later, I find myself in a van, hurtling toward an unknown destination.
“Where are we?” I manage to croak.
“Heading east,” a man replies from the front seat. “We’ll be in Sergei’s territory soon.”
Three others crowd the enclosed space alongside me, including the driver, their faces stern and focused on the road. I don’t recognize a familiar figure among them—not even Vanya.
“Where is Mischa?” I ask, peering through the nearest window. Just behind this vehicle, I can make out the looming shape of another van.
Mischa, Anna, and the boy must be in another vehicle altogether.
Because otherwise…I’m alone.
Chapter 11
Darkness shrouds the interior of the van when it finally comes to an abrupt stop. Consciousness is a battle I’ve fought to the bitter end. By now, my bloodshot eyes can barely open wide enough to make out my surroundings. Beyond the van, the vague outline of a structure looms, ghosted by moonlight.
Could it be Winthorp Manor?
Or was my escape more than a fantastical dream?
“Stay with me, Little Rose.”
I jump as someone opens the door on my side. Cool air spills in and I find myself in familiar arms without warning.
“I’ve got you.”
My head lolls against a muscled shoulder, a stern jaw the only focal point I can fixate on. God, he looks older, aged overnight. From this angle, the shadows beneath his eyes hollow his features, more defined than ever.
“Am I safe?” I ask, my voice a broken whisper. Despite everything, I’m curious as to his answer. Will he make the same boast Robert did once his pawn was back within his possession? Safe. Safe. Safe.
I wait for a mocking taunt, but he says nothing else as he carries me toward a grand structure that, at a glance, I can tell dwarfs even his old manor in comparison.
Sergei’s property?
It’s made of stone, at least four stories tall. The layout isn’t as flashy as that of Winthorp Manor’s. Regal and modest, it’s more enclosed: a family home rather than a status symbol.
In the fading light, I make out a paved courtyard containing a small garden casting a mockingly sweet aroma as we pass. Up ahead, a massive door opens and from it rushes Vanya.
“Thank God,” he says, spotting us. “You found her—”
“Papa?”
That voice stops him dead in his tracks, and I fear he’ll collapse. Wildly, he scans the area before his gaze finally fixates on something beyond us.
“No,” he croaks, his voice rasping. “No, it can’t be…”
A hesitant step propels him down the stone path. Then another, until he’s running across the courtyard. I turn in time to catch a slender figure limping toward him.
“Papa!” Instantly, she’s engulfed in his arms and they sink to their knees, heedless of the paved stone beneath them. It’s too raw of a moment to ogle for long. Too intimate.
I turn away, surprised to find Mischa staring resolutely ahead as well. Once we reach the entrance to the manor, he carries me into the grand foyer beyond it. Here, the mood shifts entirely as we’re approached by a watchful Sergei.
“You found her,” the older man says, eyeing me with a terse nod. “How?”
“Ask her,” Mischa says, jostling me in his arms. “In fact, how fucking useful are you and your so-called expert intel?”
“Something happened.” Sergei’s eyes narrow imperceptibly. “Explain.”
“No. How about you explain?” Mischa stops short of running into the other man altogether—for my sake, I suspect.
Trapped between them, I’m the only one who would suffer.
“For one,” Mischa continues, “explain why, despite all your intel on the Winthorps, you’ve never mentioned that your real niece was alive?”
Sergei frowns. “What are you…” Then he turns to the commotion in the courtyard and something flits across his face so quickly that I can barely trace it. Shock?
Before I can be sure, he’s already halfway to his brother and his niece.
“I thought you were dead,” I admit to Mischa. I’m still in his arms, in a hallway, I think. Then a room. “I thought—”
“You need to sleep,” he says, lowering me to a soft surface I assume to be a bed.
From the corner of my eye, I notice emerald-green walls, and a lavish canopy shrouds me from above.
“Go ahead,” Mischa commands. “Get some rest. I’ll be here.”
“Oh?” A tired laugh trickles from my throat, much to my surprise. “To make sure I don’t run away?”
Of all the times to joke…
This one lands flat.
“Yes.” He scans my face, hunting for something. Searching. As my eyes drift shut, I hear him mutter, “Though maybe you shouldn’t have come back after all, Little Rose. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back…”
I wake up, aware of nothing other than the fact that I’m alone—and the most selfish, pathetic thought crosses my mind before I can squash it.
I want it to have been a dream: Robert. Anna.
Everything.
I want to wake up to an infuriated Mischa glaring over me while Vanya lurks worriedly in the next room and Mouse skips down the hall.
Seeing Robert at all, and finding Anna-Natalia, could have been just some vivid nightmare…
But I feel it: a cold sense of dread congealing in my belly like a lead weight. Something vital has changed. Positions have been altered overnight and nothing will be as it was.
I try to evade the inevitable by lying beneath the blankets for as long as I can. They’re expensive quality, like the kind in Mischa’s manor. The glimpses I have of the room as I toss and turn reveal an elegant, yet comfortable space with dark-green wallpaper and hardwood floors.
My bed is massive, shielded by a heavy, embroidered canopy: silver vines sewn over a rich forest green. When I finally shrug the blankets off and sit upright, I spot a set of neatly folded clothing on a polished wooden dresser in the corner. Across from it, a heavy chair is positioned near a wide window overlooking an expansive view of tailored gardens.
“We will regroup at my property,” Sergei said what feels like an eternity ago. So this must be the place.
A world where Mischa Stepanov doesn’t hold sway.
He didn’t even keep his promise to watch over me. Straining my ears, I don’t hear him grumbling or shouting nearby, either.
Cautiously, I try to stand only to gasp as pain ripples through my spine. Everything, down to my toes, throbs at the slightest attempt to bear any weight. I’m covered in thin scratches as well, though I don’t need to look any farther than my torn, bleeding feet to know that I’ve pushed my body to its limits.
But the longer I stay in bed, the more that ominous dread in my gut grows. Limping to the dresser is the only way to push back that reality for as long as possible. The clothing I find is a pink dress with long sleeves. Courtesy of Mischa?
I picture him finding the garment he’d consider the most insulting. Robert’s precious wife bundled in pink after being pried from his grasping hands. How ironic would that be?
I can’t even look at the color without shuddering, so I set the garment aside and bite my pride back enough to open a drawer and snatch something new from it: another dress in a shade of blue.
Sergei keeps his home well stocked, it seems.
My search of the room thankfully turns up an en suite bathroom equipped with a tub large enough to submerge myself in completely. I run the water as hot as I can stand it and climb in. Washing Robert away a second time is a grueling, tenuous affair.
My battered limbs take ages to scrub clean. Once I’ve dried off and wrapped in a towel, I brush my teeth until my gums bleed. Then I use a bit of hand soap for good measure.
Dramatic in a sense. Or perhaps poetic?
He doesn’t own me anymore.
But who does? When I finally gather the nerve to creep
from my room, I feel rudderless. A careening ship without a captain, barely able to avoid the rocks waiting to dash me to pieces.
And this new landscape seems to contain plenty of pitfalls to stumble upon.
Sergei’s home is a maze of ornate hallways, much like Mischa’s Pecavi—only this place feels older. Colder.
Prestige seems printed into the very wallpaper and embedded in every portrait of a nameless figure I pass. A modest color scheme of dark green and silver creates a quiet atmosphere.
So quiet.
My footsteps echo, jarringly loud. Any minute, a snarling mafiya leader should appear from around a corner and snidely insinuate I have ulterior motives.
By the time I reach a grand, circular staircase, I’ve found no one. Here, at least, voices drift from nearby. I follow them to a small sitting room.
Inside it, Vanya is sitting on a leather chair, angled toward Anna. She’s been washed and dressed in a clean black dress. In her arms, her son sleeps, held to her chest as she and her father speak in low, hushed tones. Suddenly, he reaches out, bracing his hand on her knee, and I can make out the glint of tears painting her cheeks.
Quietly, I turn away and continue past them. I have no idea how long this hallway goes or where it travels. Almost in a daze, I turn a corner and nearly trip over a small body huddled by the wall. Alarm lances down my spine and I jolt back reflexively, my arm outstretched.
But then I make out the figure’s pale-blond hair and crouch beside her. “Mouse?”
She turns away from me. Her slight body heaves and she tries to shield her face with one of her hands.
“What’s wrong?” A million horrific scenarios march through my mind. So many dark, twisted things.
She shakes her head. Then she brandishes her other hand, holding the trembling fingers up for me to make out the red substance painting each fingertip.
“Oh God. What happened?” I lurch to my feet, my heart racing. Is another attack imminent? “Is it your shoulder?” I ask her out loud. “We need to find Mischa—”
Mouse grabs my hand and tugs before I can take a step. No! She points to her belly and it takes my brain a second to put the pieces together.
“How old are you?” I ask, returning to a crouch.
She eyes me warily, mistrust glinting in her green irises. Only God knows how long she’s had to survive like this, always on guard.
Finally, she raises all ten of her fingers. Then two.
“Twelve,” I say, nodding. “All right. Come with me.”
I don’t know how to navigate back to my room, but with luck, I find a bathroom nearby and coax her into a shower. The brief looks I get of her body make my heart ache. She’s twelve with the physique of a much younger child, though I doubt through natural means. How long has she been deprived of food, or comfort, or basic care?
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” I tell her as she huddles at the back of the shower, hunched away from me. “This happens to every woman. My first time, I thought I was dying, but one of the older maids took pity on me and taught me about womanhood.”
In crude, explicit terms, but it was a lesson nonetheless.
“You aren’t dying,” I add as shuffling sounds allude to her studiously scrubbing her body clean. “But you will have to learn to anticipate it. For now, we’ll make do, but I’ll see if someone can get you proper supplies. Would you like that?”
I pause in the slim chance she’ll reply.
“Okay,” I say as if she has. “No one else has to know.”
Finally, Mouse reemerges, dripping wet. I help her dry off and then I leave her long enough to retrace my steps to the room I woke up in and retrieve the pink dress.
I return and find her rooted firmly where I left her, by the tub. Once she eyes the garment in my hands, she frowns and shakes her head.
“It’s just for now,” I insist, helping her put it on. “I’m sure you’ll be back to climbing trees in no time.”
Her wrinkled nose reveals her doubts about that.
When we finally leave the bathroom, she stays close to my side like a shadow. Hiding?
“We should find your room,” I suggest. “Do you remember where it—”
“Here you are. The Mouse and Rose.” Mischa seems to appear from the very shadows. He’s still wearing a pair of filthy, faded fatigues. Either he’s gone out again or he’s still on guard, unable to relax even here. His eyes scan me in a ruthless sweep, settling on my face, then my hair. “You and I need to have a chat, Rose,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically stern. “Preferably now.”
“No.” I have to clear my throat to find the traction to speak. “I’m tired.”
It’s like that first day all over again—trapped with him. My initial instinct is to run. I turn on my heel to do just that, but Mouse digs her nails into my wrist and yanks me back. She’s surprisingly strong for someone so small. I look down and find her gritting her teeth as she inclines her head down the hall. Apparently, her room is nearby.
“Tired?” Mischa advances a step, his eyes narrowed, and unease washes over me. In an instant, he’s switched from playful to guarded as only he can. His jaw twitches as if chewing over the words he plans to say next. Then he shrugs and continues moving, pushing past me. “Suit yourself.”
The chill in his voice resonates down to my core. But before it can fully sink in, Mouse tugs me forward and I have no choice but to follow.
Her room is smaller than mine, but not far down. The layout of the floor curves—a giant oval centered around the staircase. Together, Mouse and I find a clean pair of underwear and a maid, who promptly supplies sanitary napkins.
“It should last for seven days or so,” I explain as she throws herself onto a modest bed draped in yellow sheets. “The worst thing you’ll experience is the cramping. You should learn to anticipate it, trust me. Mine should be due…” I do the math in my head and then bite my lip so hard that it bleeds. “Um…any day now,” I croak. “Maybe I’ll get to join in your misery?”
I try to smile, but her lips remain resolute in a flat, stubborn line.
“So you are twelve,” I say, switching subjects. I wonder if Mischa knew that. Looking at her, I wouldn’t guess her any older than nine or ten. “Where are you from?”
She looks away from me, her mouth wrinkling. Then she points to a portrait hanging above the bed.
“The ocean?” I guess, deciphering the clue from the framed scene of a stormy beach.
She shrugs and raises her arm before quickly extending it.
“There was fishing there?” I say, interpreting her miming.
She nods and then returns to her stiff, hunched position, looking at everything but me.
“Can you speak?” I know I’m unwanted here. But maybe she’s preferable to the silence and thoughts of Robert and Mischa. Admittedly, a feral dog hungry for my blood would be preferable. “Or do you just choose not to—”
“She can.”
I jump as the door opens from the outside, revealing Mischa behind it. He crosses his arms, oblivious as Mouse’s cheeks turn blood red.
“How long were you standing there?” I demand.
“The girl can hear, so she isn’t mute,” he says, shrugging me off. “She can speak, but it’s probably painful, and she wouldn’t be able to say much, if anything at all. It’s a trick that Nicolai uses to silence all of his drug mules. He gives them a daily dose of a chemical cocktail that causes permanent, lasting damage to the vocal cords if taken long enough.”
Horror drains any irritation I may feel toward him. “That’s horrible—” I break off as Mouse jumps from the bed and storms past Mischa, her hands in fists.
“What’s wrong?” He reaches for her arm, but she easily evades him and dashes into the hall. Narrowed, his eyes cut toward me. “What did you say to her?”
“Me?” I scoff. “Maybe she’s alarmed by the man who just rudely barged into her room and overheard a private conversation? How much did you overhear?”
&nb
sp; “I don’t know.” Mischa frowns, stroking his chin. “Something about fishing.”
“What do you know about her?” I blurt, staring at the space she occupied. In so many ways, she seems to fit that stupid nickname. A mysterious, scurrying creature.
“Not much,” he admits. “Just what I managed to get out of Nicolai. She was sold to settle a debt.”
And he callously threw her into his drug trade.
“Her story isn’t as rare as you might think. In fact…” He looks up, meeting my gaze, and alarm jolts down my spine. I step back instinctively, but he’s already advancing twice as fast. “Plenty of women find themselves caught up in the schemes of evil men. Isn’t that right? Or at least that is the tale they want you to believe…”
He reaches for me, twisting a lock of my hair between his fingers.
“Stop!” I bat his hand away, and he cocks his head as if finally learning the answer to a puzzling question. “You should be with Anna,” I croak.
“And where should you be, Elle?” he bites back. “How soon before I can expect Robert Winthorp knocking on the front fucking door, following the trail of crumbs you’ve left for him?”
My hand lashes out with no input from my brain. It’s only as I feel the sting through my palm that I realize what I’ve done: I’ve slapped him.
And I don’t regret one fucking second.
Chapter 12
“There she is…” Laughing, he lets the blow glance off him and leans in, forcing me farther into the corner. “What a shame you’ve dropped your grateful, jail-sprung act so soon. It was almost convincing—”
“And you?” I counter. “You should be with the love of your life, shouldn’t you?”
God, I hate how nasty I sound. So damn bitter.
“Though,” I choke out as my throat tightens, “maybe you wanted to tie up loose ends first? Don’t worry. I can take a hint.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“What you said,” I insist. “According to you…I shouldn’t have come back at all.”
“What are you—” His eyes narrow and widen in quick succession. Then he laughs. “Oh, Little Rose. The next time you want to overhear my evil musings, maybe you shouldn’t fucking pass out before you hear the whole thing? I don’t think you should have come back because…”