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“Don’t.” He shrugs the gratitude off, squaring his jaw. “I’ll get you something to put it in. Keep it on you always—”
“Why are you so nice to me?” I don’t mean to come off as rude. Perhaps desperate? Mischa, as brutal as he is, speaks a language I can understand. But kindness? That is a foreign commodity in my world, and if Robert taught me one thing, it was that nothing came for free.
“Why?” Vanya looks beyond me, his mouth twisted thoughtfully. Finally, he sighs. “I would hope that, in her final days, someone would have shown some kindness to my daughter.”
I cringe at the barely concealed pain in his voice.
A good woman wouldn’t probe it.
“I saw her,” I admit. Like a coward, I stare at the floor rather than meet his gaze. “At Winthorp Manor when she was held captive. Did Mischa tell you?”
“Yes.”
I lift my head and meet his gaze, but he stares back unflinchingly, hiding nothing.
“He told me. And in her name, I want you to know that you have nothing to fear from me. However, I do have something I want to ask you, if that is all right.”
“Anything.” I can’t help how eager I sound. “Please ask.”
“You grew up there? In that place?”
I force myself to nod. “Yes.”
“And your parents?”
Alarm dances down my spine. “Dead.”
“And…your mother?”
My lips part just as Mischa’s words come back to haunt me:“If Vanya asks about her. Lie. Trust me on this.”The concept should be laughable. Trusting Mischa over the only man to show me kindness here.
But…
My new tormentor may be many things, but I’m not sure if a liar is one of them.
“Her name was…Martha,” I lie. “She was a maid on the Winthorp estate.”
“A maid?” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s just that you remind me of someone.”
“Oh?” My heart lurches in my chest. “W-who?”
“Someone,” he repeats, staring past me. His mouth sags into a wry frown, but not even a second later, he shakes his head, banishing the expression. “Get some sleep. I’ll get you something for the money in the morning.”
He’s gone a heartbeat later, closing the door behind him.
When heavy footsteps near the room, I assume it’s him, returning for one last word. But no. Another man throws the door open, looming in the doorway.
“I gave you your payment,” Mischa tells me, his voice rough. He found a new shirt from somewhere, though he wears the same filthy pants. “That is how it will be from now on. A transaction. You prove your worth—”
“Like by being a mule for whatever illegal things you sell?”
“Ah.” He raises an eyebrow, his mouth quirked. “I gave you your cut, didn’t I?”
I eye the money, flexing my fingers. “As if that makes it any better—”
“Don’t lie.” He advances a step closer. “You fucking like having it—payment. But since I’ve given you yours… I’m here to take mine.”
I glance at him sharply. “And what is that?”
