VII (Seven)

by Lana Sky

  VII: (Seven)

  War of Roses Book 2

  Lana Sky

  VII: (Seven)

  VII: (Seven) By Lana Sky

  Copyright © 2019 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Mickey, thank you so very much for taking the time to help me perfect this draft. As always, your feedback and expertise have been invaluable. Thank you, Charity for applying the final touches on this draft.

  Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement along the way! Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic and explicit content matter that is not suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: explicit sex, mentions of sexual abuse, and graphic depictions of violence.

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Sample of I…

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Lana Sky

  Preface

  Shakespeare once posed the infamous question, What is in a name?

  Everything, of course. Your soul. Your identity. Your fate.

  It’s why Robert feared his. That fancy, official moniker was a constant reminder of what his title as a Winthorp truly meant in the grand scheme: that he was nothing more than a pawn shoved across the game board by his own father.

  Deep down, my husband thrived on the only aspect he ever had control over: terror. Like an artist, he cultivated it in other people and despised it in himself. He died of it.

  In a suitable irony, so did his wife.

  Chapter 1

  How fitting is it that the old Ellen Winthorp meets her grisly end in a madman’s lair, surrounded by scarlet? In a mocking array, the color paints the walls, accents, and every bit of furnishing. Red is all I see—like fire, consuming the remnants of my soul.

  Curled on the floor, clutching my hand to my chest, I choke back a scream as the weight of my injury registers throughout my body. Fire, pinching, aching, throbbing… But, of all the emotions to feel…relief shouldn’t be one of them.

  “Ellen?”

  A calloused palm grazes my cheek, jarring me from my thoughts. I blink, surprised to find my eyes are overflowing. The moisture blurs my vision, obscuring the figure crouched before me. Vanya.

  “Let me see it,” he commands. “Give me your hand!”

  I can’t silence a groan when he pries my arm from my side. Even the slightest touch triggers an avalanche of throbbing pain. Instinct warns me not to look down at the source: my left hand. Snippets of memory sneak into my thoughts anyway like a mocking slideshow. Blood. Bone. A sawing blade…

  What the hell have I done?

  “Jesus Christ!” Vanya recoils from me, his face pale. “Don’t move!” He scrambles to his feet and returns a moment later, juggling an armful of supplies. Standing over me, he bites his lip, eyeing the puddle of blood spreading across the carpet. “Mischa… He didn’t—”

  “No.” I shake my head. I’m not trying to spare Mischa further judgment, either. I need to hear it said out loud. “I… I did it to myself.”

  “Why? What the hell were you thinking?” He grits his teeth, but a relieved sigh robs his voice of any true anger. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I need to stop the bleeding.”

  He sinks to his knees and presses a wad of cloth against my hand. I’m only vaguely aware of what he’s really doing: staunching the bleeding from the grotesque stump where my ring finger used to reside.

  A strangled laugh rips from me before I can help it. What a shame that Robert never gave me a ring—severing all ties to him would be a lot less dramatic in that case.

  “Stay with me,” Vanya warns, his voice gruff with concern. After a few seconds of pressure, he withdraws the bloodied cloth and wets it with liquid from a brown bottle. “I’ll have to stitch it shut or it will continue to bleed. This will hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  I wince as he reapplies the cloth, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the chaos raging in my psyche. Twenty-three years of my soul have been sliced away without a second thought, and I don’t know who’s left behind—or what she wants.

  Pain?

  Torment?

  Or, dare I even think…Mischa?

  “Keep this covered,” Vanya warns.

  I glance down and find that he’s wrapped my entire hand in gauze. Regardless, scarlet seeps through in vain.

  “Damn it!” He fumbles to grab a small vial from his scattered supplies. “Here, hold on—” After priming a needle with the clear liquid from the vial, he injects it into my arm. The brief sting barely registers as a wave of dizziness washes over me, smothering the pain. “Now, stay here.” Almost in afterthought, he mutters, “I need to find Mischa.”

  With that, he gathers his supplies and leaves.

  Despite his warning, vanity wins out over exhaustion. I need to see…

  Biting back a cry, I stand, holding my left arm awkwardly at my side. My knees feel like jelly and the room spins as I stagger to find my balance. In the end, I have to cling to the wall and make my way step by step into the bathroom. There, in the mirror, I find a stranger.

  Her blue eyes are familiar. Briar? Ellen? Marnie? But no. Her cold, empty expression is the handiwork of only one creature. Mischa. He’s claimed this new, untouched part of me. He’s even given her a name.

  Little Rose.

  He doesn’t let me sleep. The moment I drag my battered body to the mattress and attempt to lower my head, the door flies open and my tormentor invades. I open my eyes to track his predatory advance across the room. He’s dressed in black now, a color-choice which just so happens to disguise any blood.

  But at least he’s whole. Both of his hands are intact, gesturing sharply as he speaks to someone behind him.

  “…I went to him,” he growls. “The asshole wouldn’t dare attack me directly—”

  “Oh?” another man interjects. Vanya? “Before last night, I would have believed so. Before I learned that you baited him. Toyed with him. And her? You let her think you killed—”

  “Enough.”

  “Fine,” Vanya concedes. He’s changed his clothing and wiped the blood from his hands, but his haggard face betrays only exhaustion. “Play your game. But is this necessary?”

  “You’re the one who suggested I make her useful,” Mischa snaps. Cocking his head toward Vanya, he adds, “So here’s a chance for you both to prove your loyalty. Do the job without word of it getting back to Sergei.”

  “And her?”

&n
bsp; “Get up,” Mischa hisses, this time directing the words at me.

  I flinch as his arm lashes out in my direction. Rather than a blow, something lands inches from my face. Square. Small. Plastic. My brain scrambles to identify it. A credit card?

  “I have a job for you,” he declares.

  “J-Job?” I roll onto my side, biting back a groan. “What are you—”

  “You’re no longer my captive,” he snaps, crossing his arms. “And with your husband dead, you’re no use to the Winthorps either. So I suggest you choose your next steps wisely. Work with me or take your chances out there.”

  His words batter my exhausted brain. Deciphering them is like putting together a puzzle with jagged, razor-sharp pieces.

  “So…then what am I?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Why keep me?”

  “Maybe you should ask how?” He raises an eyebrow. “How can you make yourself useful? Do what I fucking ask. Unless you think you can go crawling back to your precious Winthorps. With the son dead, maybe you can marry the father?”

  I flinch. “So what do you want?”

  “Go with Vanya,” he says, jerking his chin in the other man’s direction. “Buy a wardrobe fit to mourn your husband in. I’m tired of watching you sully my mother’s clothes.” He leaves, storming into the hallway.

  “Don’t worry about him.” Sighing, Vanya comes to my side and hooks his hand beneath my shoulder, helping me to my feet. “Just move,” he urges, guiding me forward. “I’ve got you.”

  The halls of the manor pass in a distorted blur. It’s almost as if I blink and we’re outside where the blazing sun reflects off a black van waiting at the foot of the steps. After fastening me inside the back seat, Vanya climbs in beside me.

  “We’ve got at least an hour’s drive,” he says, casting a wary look at the manor behind us. “Get some sleep. Don’t ask questions. You don’t realize how lucky you are…”

  But maybe I do. At least an hour, free from Mischa.

  I couldn’t have prayed for that much…but it’s not a reprieve.

  Time is just another weapon in his arsenal. Now I have longer to ponder what use he has for me now.

  Because, without Robert, I’m useless to him.

  And we both know it.

  Chapter 2

  “We’re here.”

  Vanya shakes me awake, but it takes several slow blinks before my eyes focus well enough for me to regain my bearings. Narrow space. Enclosed. We’re still in the van. Beyond the window, I make out a row of buildings. Their black awnings and brick façades stand out—seemingly not one of the hotels or mysterious venues I’m used to being smuggled into.

  “Just take it easy,” Vanya warns as he maneuvers my arm around his shoulder to ease me from the van. “We’ll make this quick, and then you can sleep on the way back.”

  Quick. My stomach lurches at the word. Was that twisted code for a more nefarious game?

  After a few short paces, we enter the nearest building. Inside, clothing hangs from black velvet walls while a hostess mans a desk at the center of an elegant lobby. Beyond her is a waiting area with leather chaises. A store of some kind? It reminds me of the exclusive boutiques Briar frequents.

  The people here must be used to patrons a bit more haggard than the polished circles my sister surrounds herself with, however. The girl who greets us doesn’t bat an eyelash at my battered, bruised frame.

  “We made an appointment,” Vanya says.

  “Of course.” She nods and beckons us forward with a wave of her hand. “This way. Your men can bring the delivery around back.”

  Delivery. Her careful tone strikes a nerve. So Mischa planned this trip to mean more than a shopping spree. Of course he did.

  I crane my neck and spot one of his men carrying something from the van out front. Before I can decipher what it is, Vanya tugs on my arm.

  “Come.” He guides me to one of the chaises at the center of the waiting area before he takes up a position near the mouth of the showroom. “Quick,” he mouths.

  But when the sales girl returns, I doubt speed is what she has in mind. Behind her, another woman pushes a rack filled with various items of clothing.

  “We were told to select some items for you,” the girl explains. Her name tag reads Jenny, and her smile is genuine enough. “However, we still like to get a feel for the style of our clients. Perhaps you’d prefer to select them yourself?”

  Select. Style. Myself.

  I don’t think I’ve ever had clothing of my own. Always Briar’s old things or hand-me-downs from the servants.

  I don’t even think I have a favorite fabric, or cut, or style.

  Mischa had counted on that. Apparently, he had them just give me clothing “at random” without any thought put into what I might like. A part of me is exhausted enough to feed into the narrative of his prisoner and refuse to supply any input. It’s what Vanya expects, and he eyes me with more concern than I’d like.

  To be fair, I don’t even know which of the garments hanging on the frames calls to me the most.

  “You can show me,” I hear myself croak. “I’d like to see what you have.”

  An hour later, Vanya finally intercedes, cutting the shopping trip short. With swift efficiency, he has the items I already selected brought out to the van before he comes for me himself and helps me to my feet.

  I barely have enough time to choke out a parting thanks before we’re back on the road and whatever drug he injected me with earlier takes its full effect. My tongue feels too heavy to control, and questions spill from it unbidden.

  “Did I just help him commit another crime?” It’s funny. I can’t even come up with a solid tally of the criminal acts I’ve done for Mischa so far.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Vanya replies. “You did nothing.”

  “He sold something,” I decide, using what little logic I can muster as pain gnaws at my consciousness. “What?”

  “Nothing. At least… You won’t be the one forced to answer for it.” He looks away, his jaw tight. “Just try to get some rest.”

  But I don’t sleep on the way back. I die, am reborn, and awaken as something else. Someone else.

  Someone whole despite her broken body. Her clothing and her life have been bought on a monster’s dime—but she’s more reckless than the old Ellen Winthorp ever was. Or maybe she’s just that damn tired.

  “Easy does it.” Vanya’s breath bastes my cheek, drawing me awake.

  The world sways around me, but it’s seconds before I realize why: I’m in his arms.

  Gingerly, he carries me into the red room and sets me down on the bed. “Sleep.”

  Already numbed by the drug and pain, I don’t resist unconsciousness as my identity continues to morph around me.

  Chapter 3

  “Get up.”

  I groan as awareness returns in agonizing snatches. Whatever drug Vanya gave me was of dangerous quality—the type of all-consuming drug the old Ellen Winthorp might have chased to numb the pain of her existence. For the first time in days, I didn’t dream of a damn thing, and yet I awaken to an unfolding nightmare.

  “I said get the hell up.”

  I blink my eyes open and find a demon with golden hair standing above me. He’s still wearing black and his hair hangs loosely around his shoulders. “Get up!”

  When I don’t comply with his commands, something hard nudges my side. His boot?

  A mattress conforms beneath me, but when I turn my head, the carpet is closer than it should be. Am I in another dungeon, or did he move me to a different room while I was asleep? But no…

  The red walls are the same, as are the sheets. But the bed frame is gone, and so is the vanity, and the wardrobe, and any other sense of furnishing.

  Like magic, he’s turned the tables once more.

  “From now on, if you want a fucking thing, you buy it your damn self,” Mischa snarls, proving my suspicion correct: Somehow, he stripped the room bare. “Get dressed.” He kicks the mattress, spu
rring me into a sitting position. “I have a job for you.”

  Unease coils in my belly. “A job.” After swallowing hard, I add, “Being a mule for you to smuggle something into a boutique?”

  His eyes widen. He didn’t think I noticed?

  “Or,” I continue, “as a whore?”

  With Robert gone, those are the only two uses he could have for me.

  But his expression reveals nothing. Just bitter impatience that bristles as our gazes meet.

  “Do not test me, Robert’s—” He breaks off, scowling, but I can guess what word he held back. Wife. “Get. Dressed.”

  He didn’t remove my new clothing, at least. The items are still packaged in boxes and bags piled behind him in one corner of the room. Cautiously, I stand and take a step, but my buckling legs nearly pitch me over.

  “Easy,” Mischa hisses. He grabs my arm, steadying me—but, surprisingly, I don’t feel any pain. The drug must still be in my system.

  “I’m fine.” Taking care with my bandaged hand, I stagger toward the clothing and fish out the first outfit I can reach: a white dress.

  I shed my filthy clothes and pull on the new dress over my head one-handed. When I try to smooth the hem, a drop of fresh blood seeps into the fabric. Spreads.

  “I…I need to wash,” I croak as my thumb rubs at the spot in vain.