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Chapter 5
Mischa finally guides me from the tree as a sliver of light begins to paint the horizon.
Disoriented and sore, I don’t question him during the long trek through the woods. Finally, we return to that expanse of dirt road and find a van waiting with keys already in the ignition.
“Keep alert,” Mischa tells me as he climbs behind the wheel. “Don’t forget you have that knife.”
After claiming the passenger’s seat, I take his advice and scan our surroundings. Apart from scurrying creatures, I find nothing worth notice. Eventually, the motion of the van and the silence work to lull my brain into a false sense of monotony. The kind of dull idleness where dangerous thoughts take root.
My husband is dead. I feel a sudden urge to say it out loud, just once.
“He’s dead.” The words ring hollow, solidifying a thought that hurts to admit. I’d have to see it for myself. To truly know…
Robert owns me in a way that surpasses any other emotion I’ve lived by. I feel him in my bones. In my head. Death won’t separate him from me so easily.
“How can I believe you?” I ask Mischa. Something he said keeps circling my skull. “How do you know it was reallyRobertwho died? What about his father—”
“Tell me,” Mischa says without taking his eyes off the road. “What reason would I have for lying about theonlyworth you had to me?”
He has a point.
“So, why keep me alive?”
This has to be the third time I’ve asked him as much in so many words. Why. Why. Why?
He has yet to give me a convincing answer.
“Should I kill you?” he wonders, turning the wheel to avoid a dip in the road.
For the first time, the landscape draws my attention. We aren’t on our way back to his manor—unless he’s taking a different route. We don’t pass any of the landmarks I noted on our way here, and the fields grow more mountainous with every mile.
“Killing me would make sense,” I reply, phrasing my answer carefully.
“Sense.” He scoffs. “I don’t deal in sense, Little Rose. I deal in what I can taste. Feel. Blood. Killing. Fucking.Youcan play with sense.”
“So, fucking.” My brow furrows as I parrot the coarse word. “Is that why?”
He looks at me sharply, forsaking the road. “Your cunt is nowhere near that good.”
The vulgar terms set my cheeks on fire. “So, then—”
“Why?” he finishes for me. “How about I tell youhow. How you can enjoy this gift of choice, Little One: You shut your goddamn mouth and you enjoy the ride.”
“But why not let me go?” Testing him is a game I can’t stop myself from playing. A gamble with brutal, unattainable dividends. I’ll bankrupt my soul trying to win, but the few, rare lucky hands I’ve already won sate my nerve to try again.
“I may not be your husband, as you so kindly reminded me before,” he says, “but make no mistake: I own you. You’ve seen too much. You can try to run if you want, but I willfindyou.”
I swallow hard, sensing the threat resonate somewhere deep down in my belly. It’s a promise.
“Though is dying with me any different from dying in Winthorp Manor?”
“Is it?” With Robert, I knew my place. I had a role and I performed it the best I knew how.
Here…
There are no rules, which upends my comfortable, if tiring, routine. Three days into my marriage with Robert and I had him pegged down to the minute as to how a typical encounter would begin and end. Twice as many days with Mischa and I still can’t predict him from one second to the next.
As if to feed that narrative, he takes one of his hands off the wheel and swipes it along my cheek. “Since you seem so fond of ultimatums… Mention your husband again and I’ll remember more stories about your mother and Sergei Vasilev.” He presses his thumb over my lip, sealing the promise. “He’s dead. From now on, you say onlyoneman’s name.”
