I (One)

by Lana Sky

  Deep down, I know it’s a stupid, foolish plan.

  But I spent sixteen years living my life in the safest way I knew.

  “We need to hide!” Briar rasps. “This way—”

  She tugs me toward the farthest gardens, but I break away.

  “Ellen!”

  “Hide,” I hiss to her. Then, shrugging aside her attempts to pull me back, I take off toward the main manor.

  Idiot! I imagine Mischa shouting. Hide! Running toward danger is the stupidest thing I’ve done.

  Reckless.

  Selfish.

  But, in war, there are no true winners. Here, in the sanctity of the Winthorp stronghold, Sergei has the advantage.

  And he can’t win.

  My breaths rip from me as I run, plowing my bare feet over the cool grass. It’s surreal in a sense, being inside my old cage as it’s attacked from within. The beautifully tended flowerbeds of Winthorp manor create a mocking backdrop to the figures, dressed in black, streaming across it, wielding weapons.

  Mischa made his name through his combat prowess—but Sergei can apparently muster the same amount of manpower.

  He hasn’t brought just one henchman to ensure his victory—he brought an army.

  They cut boldly through the heart of the property, heedless of any Winthorp men who may be out on patrol.

  I stick to the outskirts. Up ahead, the breathtaking façade of my childhood home stands, bathed in moonlight. The fighting started here, it seems.

  Breaking glass and more gunshots allude to the battle raging within.

  And every fiber of my being warns me to run. Hide. My heart pounds as I search for clarity among the shadowy figures battling on the terrace. I see nothing but sparks as guns fire and glass shatters.

  I have to keep moving. As the clamor and violence rage around me, I deafen myself to everything but the sound of my ragged breathing. Then I set my sights on the detached building housing all Winthorp vehicles and inch my way toward it.

  Mouse. Eli. Mouse. Eli…

  “Ellen!” Someone grabs my arm, spinning me around.

  A scream crawls up my throat before I even make out my captor’s face, gleaming in the moonlit dark. I was so focused on the garage that I didn’t even realize I’d passed the west end of the Manor entirely.

  Here, it seems, Robert and a contingent of bodyguards have made their last stand. Fitting, since they create a makeshift barricade before the guesthouse and the prisoners he had locked inside it.

  “What are you doing out here?” Robert demands. He cuts his gaze to a uniformed guard standing beside him, his face white with rage. “It’s no fucking matter now.” He grabs my arm, dragging me forward as he approaches a black van, flanked by two more bodyguards. “I’ll keep you safe,” he swears. “Once we’re away from this fucking place, I’ll never let you—”

  He breaks off, his eyes wide, staring blankly ahead. His lips move, but no words come from them.

  Just blood. Splatters of it speckle my cheek as he goes limp and falls backward, his mouth frozen in a startled O.

  I can’t scream.

  Can’t breathe.

  In an array of beautiful, terrible noise, several quiet pops echo one by one, and the rest of the men around me go down in the same way.

  Shot.

  Dazed, I turn around in time to catch the killer, aiming his weapon at me. He’s alone—I register that first as my brain tracks his approach in slow motion. His gray hair catches fire in the moonlight, making him seem more ethereal than human. A demon, his teeth bared in rage.

  Panting, he says something my brain can’t process and then aims the gun directly over my heart.

  “Ellen, look out!”

  Blond hair gleams in the air as a slender figure dashes from the front of the manor. Briar. Startled, Sergei turns toward her and the world explodes with a monstrous sound. Bang!

  Acrid smoke tickles my throat as my ears ring in the aftermath. I can taste death; it comes that close to claiming me. But, as I stagger a few steps back, I realize I’m unscathed.

  He missed…

  But I wasn’t his target. Paces away, a limp, blonde figure lies motionless on the lawn.

  “No!” Even as I scream, there isn’t time to think. React. Mourn.

  Sergei’s already whirling in my direction—but he doesn’t expect the second I lunge.

  There’s no way I can overpower him. Stunning him is my only goal as my hand grapples with his. The gun swishes wildly in his grasp, pointing at me. The ground.

  “Shit!” Finally, he drops it entirely.

  But I don’t have long to feel triumphant.

  “You bitch!” He grabs my throat, wrenching my feet off the ground.

  In vain, I strain and kick and flail until he trips, crushing me to the ground. Panic flares as the air leaves my chest. I brace my hand protectively over my stomach and fight for leverage to slip from his grasp.

  “You little bitch,” he grunts, tightening his grip. “I knew the moment I saw you that you were like her,” he hisses. “Marnie Winthorp. Meddling and foolish—”

  “I…saw…through you,” I manage to croak. “Just…like…she did…”

  Blood rushes through my ears, drowning him out. Closing my eyes, I focus every ounce of strength I have into kicking. Clawing. Biting. But he’s no easy foe to overpower.

  His angry growls seep into my ears as every attempt I make to resist has less and less impact. “Just…like….that fucking…whore…”

  Suddenly, he stiffens, impossibly heavy. Crushing me…

  “Ellen?”

  The faint shout triggers a sharp pang through my chest. Hope? I open my eyes as unseen hands roll Sergei off of me. Gasping for breath, I blink up at the figure in question, braced to fight. A haggard face stares back at me and I shake my head. I’m dreaming.

  Still, I indulge my insanity. “V-Vanya?”

  He’s holding a knife. Blood streaks the tip and my brain takes a pathetically long second to put the pieces together: the weapon, the unmistakable shape of a larger body lying beside mine.

  Swallowing hard, Vanya flexes his free hand without looking away from me once. “Come with me.” He hauls me to my feet, and into his arms.

  “Briar…”

  “She’s alive.” He jerks his chin toward a man racing past us, Briar in his arms.

  But she wasn’t the only potential victim.

  I crane my neck, hunting for the awkward shape lying on the ground nearby. “Sergei—”

  “Don’t look.” Vanya grabs my chin, forcing me to face him. “Come. Come!”

  “How?” I rasp as he approaches the main manor. “How?”

  It isn’t long before someone lunges from the dark to meet us and I have my answer.

  A tattered scream rips from my throat. First, from fear. Then, as the moonlight plays over the planes of the attacker’s face…

  Air wheezes from my chest as any words I mean to say die as a gasp. I’m dreaming. I have to be. But even my imagination isn’t so vivid.

  I could never recreate the grated cadence of his voice.

  “You’re shaking, Little Rose,” he scolds as I scramble from Vanya’s grasp.

  I’m falling. My knees give way, but he catches me, looping an arm around my shoulders. “Mischa—”

  “Did he hurt you?” he asks near my ear. “If he touched you, I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”

  I shake my head, hoping it conveys my meaning: I don’t matter. Inhaling deeply, I try to speak. “He has…” My voice is a thin, broken mockery, barely discernable.

  “It’s all right,” Mischa snaps. He angles my face toward him and I can’t stop myself from tracing the rugged features.

  My hands shake so badly that my nails catch his flesh. I have to be hurting him, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

  He doesn’t fade away beneath my fingertips, at least. His heat is a cushion against the chill encasing me. I can feel his heart hammering through his rib cage, as his arms cradle me, firm
and gentle all at once.

  “You’re dead,” I whisper, cringing with the pain it takes to say even that little. “Dead—”

  “I would be,” he says softly, for my ears only. “If it wasn’t for your friend Somodorov.” He chuckles as my eyes widen in shock. Gingerly, his thumb teases the corner of my mouth. “Apparently, a certain whore made him rethink his alliances. He intervened during Sergei’s ambush—”

  “Mischa,” Vanya calls. “We need to move. Now.”

  “Mouse and Eli,” I say, forcing the words from my raw throat. “We need—”

  “They’re safe,” he says. “We went there first, but you were already gone. Mouse had him hidden.” He laughs gruffly, shaking his head. “I almost didn’t fucking find them. But then we came for you.”

  Which is why Sergei had to move up his timeline by attacking so soon.

  “Mischa!” Vanya jerks his chin toward a van idling in the main courtyard. “We need to move.”

  Mischa grits his teeth. “Sergei still has his allies,” he says as he hastens me toward the van.

  From the pain in his tone, I know that his worst fear is now a reality.

  The mafiya has split down the middle.

  And we’ve just ushered in a new war.

  “We’re here,” Mischa says into my ear.

  Dazed, I blink my eyes open and my heart jolts in my chest. Of all the places to find looming beyond the van, Sergei’s manor wasn’t on my list.

  “It’s safe,” Mischa says as I stiffen. “We drove off his men. No one else would dare attack it now—”

  “It’s my home,” Vanya says gruffly from the front seat. Reaching back, he grabs my hand and squeezes reassuringly. “Even those loyal to Sergei wouldn’t dare strike here. Not if they want to keep breathing.”

  The coldness in his tone bolsters the threat and I have no doubt he’d follow through. I’m not sure how much of Sergei’s rant he overheard, but something in his gaze is different. Harder. Pained.

  Maybe I’m selfish for wanting to ease it the only way I know how.

  “She…loved you,” I rasp as Mischa exits the van and pulls me into his arms. “My mother. She—”

  “I know,” Vanya says hoarsely, his eyes downcast. His hands are in fists, the knuckles stark white against his tanned, callused skin. “I know.”

  Mischa pulls me away before I can say anything else. This conversation will have to be continued later.

  “Stay with me, Little Rose,” he warns, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Stay with me.”

  He’s not worried about any life-threatening injuries, I suspect.

  For once, Mischa Stepanov is more direct than anything else.

  Stay with him.

  Without Robert.

  Despite the end of the Winthorp war.

  Despite the mafiya.

  Stay with him, in spite of the targets on all of our backs.

  Trust in him….

  But not for survival, or security, or any other lies I could feed myself.

  Stay with him because I want to, even if it means fighting for every scrap of peace.

  Even if it means never finding it at all.

  Epilogue

  My mother was wrong. Hell isn’t a rose. Hell is love. The agony of blind desire. Trust in the face of inevitable destruction. The acceptance of death to protect the breath of another.

  Even so, under all the violence, it’s undeniably beautiful.

  In lieu of fire and brimstone, my Hades contains a small garden overflowing with roses. A gothic manor serves as its austere backdrop, but just a few weeks of childish laughter have eased the darkness lurking in its shadows.

  A beautiful blond boy runs screaming through the gardens, chased by a silent girl with golden hair.

  And my devil stands beside me, frowning at the display. “What are you doing?” he bellows. “Run her down!”

  Heeding his advice, Eli changes tack, tackling Mouse to the ground.

  “More military games?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Anna will kill you if Eli winds up with another bruise, you know.”

  “They need to learn,” he counters. “One day, he might be thankful for surviving a battle with just a bruise.”

  I sigh internally at the reminder. Sergei’s death created a void several of his allies have jockeyed to fill. There have been no outright attacks—yet. But the prospect keeps Mischa up at night and worry has deepened the lines around his mouth. Just as the thought crosses my mind, he spites me by flashing a wicked grin.

  “Besides…the piano lessons start Tuesday.”

  “You’re not serious.” As I gape, the line of his mouth softens, just a fraction of an inch.

  Even now, nearly a month after Robert’s death, he gives me only snippets of what lurks beneath his mask. Just enough to reassure myself that this demonic creature is still human.

  “I don’t know… Maybe they should be able to play music before stabbing the first bastard to piss them off? My children won’t be pampered runts,” he adds, his tone harsh. “But table manners couldn’t hurt, either.”

  “Your children?” My throat rasps.

  Turning away from me, he steps forward, drawing Eli and Mouse’s attention. “You.” He jabs a finger at Eli and the boy startles to a stop, blinking. “And you.” He nods toward Mouse. “Do you think you have what it takes to be Stepanovs?”

  The two share a look and then nod solemnly in unison.

  “Good. You.” Again, he points to Eli. Then he moves toward a nearby rose bush and plucks a blooming rose from a stem. He rips a petal from it and then sinks to one knee, pressing the petal against Eli’s forehead. “You are now Eli Mischovich Stepanov.”

  The boy watches him with all the reverence of a knight being anointed by a king.

  “As for you.” He beckons Mouse closer, frowning. “You need a real name. Will you tell me yours?”

  She eyes him and then shakes her head, and I can’t help wondering about her past. Despite the chaos, Mischa went to Nicolai about her, demanding answers, but all the man could tell him was that she had been sold to him.

  Sold by a man named Donatello Vanici.

  I’m not brave enough to wonder what she endured before then—and I can’t blame her for not wanting a reminder.

  If it weren’t for Eli, I’m not sure I’d ever want to be reminded of the creature I used to be, either. Even Briar seemed too ashamed to face our shared past. Not long after we regrouped here at Vasilev Manor, she disappeared. So did one of the few Winthorp soldiers to survive Sergei’s assault and defect to Mischa’s mafiya. Maybe, in her own way, she thought we were even.

  I saved her life years ago.

  She saved mine.

  “What about a new name?” I suggest.

  “Something better than Mouse,” Mischa seconds, ruffling her hair.

  The girl wrinkles her nose. Then she points to one of the trees at the back of the property.

  “Tree?” Mischa asks, incredulous.

  “Willow?” I say, making a guess of my own.

  Smiling, she nods.

  “Fine. Willow it is.” Mischa rips another petal from the rose in his hand and presses it to her forehead. “Willow Mischovna Stepanova.”

  “What about this one?” I ask, stepping forward. My hand cradles my belly and Mischa promptly sinks to one knee, pressing a petal against my abdomen.

  “This one…” He frowns, mulling it over. “Mischa Junior.”

  A laugh escapes me. “And if it’s a girl?”

  He shrugs. “Mischa Junior.”

  I roll my eyes as he stands, drawing me close. His lips flutter over my cheek, imparting a million promises he can’t say out loud.

  Danger swirls around us—maybe it always will.

  But, this time, we’ll face it, two wolves with nothing to fear.

  Side by side.

  War of Roses Series Extended Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea.

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

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