by Lana Sky
“What?” I snarl.
“Because—” He grabs my wrist, yanking me against his chest. “Because I don’t think I’ll be inclined to let you go.”
My heart stops. Muttered in such heated tones, the promise should be terrifying. And it is. So many nuances lurk in those words. Things a man like him could never say out loud.
And it’s like the exhaustion and pain hit me all at once. I go limp. My arms are the only limbs I have control over and I throw them both around his neck.
“I’ve got you.” He catches me, pinning me against the wall for support. “But if you’re trying to choke me, it isn’t working.”
I’m too exhausted to form a comeback.
I break instead. Tears flood my eyes, and I sob like I never have in my entire life. So many years of pain and torment bleed from me. I can’t slow the onslaught. My body trembles in the aftermath, and only now can I finally admit it. I’ve never been so terrified. So desperate.
I’ve never fought so damn hard before.
When my sobs finally subside, his fingers creep into my hair, and I finally register his voice murmured insistently into my ear.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Let it out. Tell me what happened.”
Between gasping pants, I manage to convey everything. The escape. Robert. Everything. But as the words leave my mouth, one thing remains clear: a nagging suspicion I’ve had since the second I crawled into the damn vent.
“It feels too easy,” I admit as I draw back and swipe my hand across my face. “Too…clean.”
“Hmm.” Mischa strokes his chin, his gaze turned inward. “Like he let you go?”
“No.” All I need to do is picture Robert to be sure of that. The man I know would never relinquish his toys, not even for leverage. “More like…”
“What?” His thumb grazes my chin, coaxing an answer from it. I shiver at the contact. Only he could master gentle and demanding in one gesture.
“More like someone planned it?”
But even that sounds too fantastical. The truth could be simpler: Living with Mischa has made me just as paranoid. No wonder he can’t help but doubt me. In his world, everyone is an enemy or a potential foe.
Or a weakness waiting to be exploited.
“Anna,” I rasp, turning my attention to the view beyond the window. A faint reflection taunts me regardless: his expression, suddenly guarded. “How is she?”
The softness that seeps into his mouth shouldn’t make my chest ache. It shouldn’t make me instantly scramble several steps away from him. His humanity—as rare as it is—shouldn’t send a lance through my heart every bit as alarming as Robert’s rage.
“She’s…” He looks at the floor. Seconds pass and he can’t seem to find a word to describe it: how a woman might feel after years of captivity, only to be miraculously found alive. “I thought she was dead.”
Darkness creeps into his expression and just like that, he’s hardened Mischa once more.
“They sent her ‘body’ in pieces. We had a burial. And all this time—” He runs his fingers along the stubble on his chin and sighs. “I said goodbye to her sixteen years ago. But if I knew, even a rumor, I would have broken down their fucking front door.”
“I never saw her,” I confess. And that’s the terrifying thing. For sixteen years, Anna-Natalia was alive, presumably on Winthrop property, and I never saw her. I never heard any of the servants speak of her. Robert never so much as hinted…
And if a man could keep one such secret, only God knows what else he has in store.
“How could I have never seen her?” I’m shaking my head, and more tears threaten to fall. “I never saw her. I never saw—”
“Enough.” He steps forward and I marvel at the sensation of being in his arms again. Of all the places in the world to seek refuge, his shoulder shouldn’t be my chosen place to find it. I’m a parasite, leeching off his heat—and he lets me feed for as long as I need to.
At least until he wants something from me in return.
“I need to ask it.” His fingers fan out down my back, running over the ridges of my spine. “Did he touch you?”
I know what he means. “And if he did?”
“Then he did.” His grip tightens the moment I try to pull away. “I’d still want to know.”
“Why?” I snarl. “Would that injure your pride? If I had to sleep with him? Would that make you feel like a pathetic, fucking—”
“I’d want to know,” he growls into my ear so fiercely that I fall silent. “If he hurt you. If he touched you. I want to know.”
“No…” I sigh, too tired to resist him any longer. “He didn’t have to.”
I felt violated anyway. In his presence, I was old Ellen again, and I know now more than ever that I can never be her. Not anymore.
“Is this the part where you vow to fuck me now?” I wonder, copying his gruff tone. “Erase him? Soothe your own ego?”
“No.” His voice is so deep that it resonates in my bones. He isn’t taunting me. “This is the part where you listen. To how we were somehow ambushed despite Sergei’s protection. How I watched you get taken, and I knew then and there, even if you were a cunning little bitch who went back willingly. Even if it was all a game… Then you would have done your job too well, Rose, because I was going after you.”
Only he could make such a heated confession sound more twisted than romantic.
“What happened?” I ask. “Robert’s man said I was drugged.”
From my hazy memories, I can’t recall how something like that would occur. One moment, I was watching him from the doorway, and the next…
“All I know is you were gone and we were being shot at from the woods,” Mischa says. “Luckily, Vanya had already moved out with the rest of the men, and I could catch up well enough. Sergei suggested he mount a rescue, but I went out on my own.”
Which may explain why the leader looked more irritated than relieved when he arrived, his prize in tow.
“I didn’t know where he kept you, though Sergei had a vague idea of the direction they went in,” he admits. “Still, I expected to spend days tracking you down. But then…” He chuckles deep in his throat. “I find that you’re already ten steps ahead.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now?” He eases away from me, but his fingers slide along my hips, dragging out the contact until the last possible second.
When our gazes reconnect, I see a hint of that raw openness from before. But where, when Anna was mentioned, he looked softer—now, his bared teeth portray only ruthlessness.
“I’m going to destroy the Winthorps from the inside out.”
“But why not just…” I trail off and let myself envision a fantasy world. One in which I could run away and no evil men would ever follow. I could live my life in peace, doing the things I’ve only ever dreamt of.
Find a home.
Make it my own.
Start a family…
But even in that beautiful fantasy, one fact cuts through everything like a thorn.
Robert would never let me go.
Maybe Mischa and Sergei are right in their own twisted way. There is only one method to ever fully eradicate the threat from the Winthorps.
Once and for all.
“Don’t look so disappointed.” Mischa swipes his finger along my chin. “I’ll save your chosen prey for last. You can drive the spike through his neck.”
I cringe at the imagery and brush my fingers along my jaw, tracing the remnants of Robert’s last assault. “And if I don’t want to?”
Am I talking to Mischa or myself?
“You want to,” he replies regardless. “Oh yes. You fucking want to.”
I turn away and head for the door. “We should talk to Vanya… Anna. Maybe she knows something about what Robert is planning.”
Deep down, I know she doesn’t. On her face, I saw the same doe-eyed expression I assume Mischa did the day he captured me. The stark, naked terror of a bird fresh
ly freed from her cage.
Regardless, he says nothing, though I sense him behind me.
Vanya and Anna are still in the small sitting room. They’re sitting as close together as they can, their hands clasped, their foreheads meeting. The boy is asleep on Anna’s lap. When she spots me, she stiffens and her arms go protectively around him.
“Ellen,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Is that your name? Ellen?” She looks to Vanya for clarification and he nods. “I want to thank you for—”
“Don’t,” I say thickly. “You don’t have to.”
“But I must.” Sighing, she turns to Mischa. “I can’t believe… I can’t believe I’m really here—”
“Where did they keep you all this time?” he asks, his tone awkwardly gentle, as if he can’t remember quite how to sound comforting. There’s a hesitance in him he’s never displayed, not even around Mouse. “They told us you were dead,” he adds. “If I would have known, I would have done everything I could to—”
“I know.” Anna eyes the child sleeping in her arms and strokes his hair. “They kept me at Winthorp Manor at first. I think so anyway. It’s all a blur, those early days.”
Her knuckles whiten as she fingers a blond curl and then smooths it carefully into place.
“They beat me at first. I thought they were going to kill me, but one day…” She breaks off as if reliving the memory. Her eyes widen and she removes her trembling hands from the boy and balls them into fists. “The older Winthrop. He came into my cell, and all he said to me was, ‘My wife is the only reason you’re still alive.’”
“Robert, Sr.?” Mischa asks, sounding to me as if he’s miles away. “His wife?”
A torrent of blood surges through my ears as everything fades.
And all I see is her face.
“Marnie Winthorp,” I say. “Her?”
“Yes.” Anna nods. “I guess she made him keep me alive.”
I blink rapidly, bringing more of the world into focus. The room. Vanya. Mischa. Both of them are staring at me. Watching me.
“They moved me after that,” Anna continues. “I don’t know where. It was isolated. They never visited much in those early days, but they didn’t hurt me, either.”
“One of their outposts?” Vanya asks Mischa.
The other man nods. “Most likely.”
“I wasn’t beaten or anything worse,” Anna reiterates. She stares at nothing and I suspect she’s speaking more for her own benefit than anyone else’s. “They just kept me in a room alone, for years. So many years…” Tears well in her eyes, but she blinks them back. Her lips part into a breathtaking smile as she stares down on the boy in her arms. “If it weren’t for him, I would have gone insane.”
“What’s his name?” Vanya leans forward and brushes his fingers along the boy’s side. His wizened features soften for a brief instant and he looks years younger.
“His name?” Anna’s gaze darts in my direction and then quickly flits away. “E-Eli,” she says. “His name is Eli. Do you remember, Papa?” She croaks a watery laugh. “I always used to say that I would name my firstborn after—”
“Your grandmother.” He smiles. “And a fine name it is.”
“You said they didn’t touch you.” Mischa stands stiffly, staring into a past far beyond this room. “Then who is his father?”
“Mischa!” Vanya lurches to his feet. Anger brims over his face, darkening his eyes. For a brief second, he’s transformed and I see an echo of the man Mischa claimed he used to be. “Don’t.” He shakes his head. “Not now.”
“I-I’m tired.” Anna stands as well, clutching the boy to her chest. He stirs, grumbling, and she cradles his head. “And I should put him down for his nap.”
“I’ll go with you.” Stern-faced, Vanya stands between Mischa and his daughter like a guard, ushering her into the hall.
When they’re out of earshot, I whirl on Mischa.
“Does it matter?” My voice comes out louder than I meant it to—I’m practically shouting. “Who his father is? Does that really matter to you? It’s obvious she loves him—”
“That’s not why…” He shakes his head as his gaze refocuses on me. “You said he kept you in separate rooms?”
Him. Robert.
“Y-yes. Why?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head and then storms into the hall. “It’s nothing.”
Chapter 13
In a day of reunions, I’m ready when Sergei finally comes for me. Like the darkness descending beyond the windows, he appears in the doorway of the small sitting room long after everyone else has left.
“Ellen. Did you sleep all right?” he asks, crossing the threshold. “Was the room to your liking—”
“I’m not taking your bait,” I say, cutting to the chase. “If you want to tell me about my family, or my mother—fine. But I won’t beg you to—”
“Understandable.” He comes to stand beside me and gestures to one of the vacated chairs. “Shall we sit? Don’t worry. I will not mention my bait, as you so put it. Whatever you ask, I am more than willing to answer.”
I copy him warily, perching myself on the chair Anna occupied. It’s still warm.
“How did you know my mother? I’ve already heard the abridged version from Mischa,” I add. “But I want to hear it straight from you.”
“Marnie Winthorp…” His eyes darken thoughtfully, and he cocks his head. “Should I say that I raped her? Tortured her? Beat her? I’m sure Mischa has filled your head with all sorts of sordid scenarios—”
“Just tell me the truth,” I say tiredly. “I want… No, I need to hear it from you.”
“Well, I never touched her. We never hurt her. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Ivan.”
“But you took her from her family,” I point out. “From her daughter.”
“Yes.” He nods, turning his gaze to the window. “There was that. But you can rest assured that Ivan didn’t force himself on her if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Hope forms a painful ball at the base of my throat. It’s nearly impossible to speak. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “Because he loved her. More than I have ever seen him love anyone short of his own daughter. Even his first wife. While he cared for her, Marnie Winthorp had that man’s soul in the palm of her hand.”
It’s strange, hearing it said so starkly out loud. I try to pair the two people I know: gnarled Vanya with beautiful, innocent Marnie. No matter how I arrange their imaginary specters, I can’t see it clearly.
“But he let her go back to Robert Winthorp,” I say.
“She was recaptured, yes.” Sergei sighs. “You will have to ask him why he didn’t rescue her, but do not doubt that he loved her.”
“Did…” I swallow hard and force the question out. “Did he know about me?”
“I don’t think so,” Sergei admits. “But knowing my brother… I don’t see him being content to let you grow up in that place.”
A part of me wants to take comfort in that. At least until I recall how he was with Anna. Why go after one daughter when he clearly had another? One he raised and loved wholeheartedly.
“So what do you want with me now?” I demand.
Sergei holds out his hands defensively. “Nothing. I merely want you to learn about your family, the Vasilevs. Learn our ways.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Even with Anna back?”
“Anna…” It’s like he takes his time, mulling over the most polite phrasing possible. “Who knows what the Winthorps did to her. Is it really fair to ask her to helm so much so soon?”
“But I can?”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he settles into his chair and observes the ornate lawn visible beyond the window. Moonlight ghosts the foreign landscape, making it seem more ethereal than real.
“I want you comfortable here, Ellen,” he says after a moment. “I won’t ask anything of you for a few days. Explore. Ask questions. Have the run of the entire manor.” Grunting, he pulls him
self to his feet and heads for the door. “How did you find your room?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” He meets my gaze with a searching look of his own and then steps into the hall. From it, his voice reaches me. “It was your mother’s. I hope to see you at dinner. I’ve ordered my chef to prepare a banquet. A celebration of sorts, but I will understand if you prefer to have it brought to you instead.”
I say nothing, listening to his steps retreat.
Mischa finds me in the dark. I sense him before his hand lands on my shoulder, painted silver by moonlight.
“You didn’t eat.” He tugs his grip, hauling me from the seat. “Come.”
I let him guide me down the hall, but I’m surprised when we pass the room I recognize as mine and enter another alarmingly close to it.
At a glance, I know it’s his. Only he would rebel against finery and comfort. He’s stripped the bed of its fancy sheets, and his clothing lies strewn over the floor. Out of everything, the most alarming detail is the tray of food left steaming on a table in the corner.
Apparently, he hijacked the delivery meant for me and brought it here.
“Eat,” he commands, nodding to the food. At the same time, he fishes something from his pocket and props a knee on the edge of the bed frame. With one hand, he balances the object over his thigh while manipulating a cloth in the other.
A few seconds pass before I realize what he’s doing: polishing his knife.
Turning my back to him, I approach the table. Up close, I discover that not only did he take my tray, but a second one lies beneath a discarded gray shirt. He’s barely touched the plump steak or vegetables on it.
I incline my head in his direction. “You didn’t eat, either?”
He looks up and shrugs. “Banquets are not my thing.”
Another glaring difference between him and Sergei. The older man seems to relish tradition, while Mischa…
Well, he prefers to stab what doesn’t suit his preferences.