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“So you didn’t know.” He sounds doubtful, even as the words leave his mouth.
“And you?” I wonder, eyeing his back. I’ve seen the scars that mark his body, but what horrors might lurk on his soul? “Do you trade in ‘flesh’ as well?”
The way he stiffens makes me second-guess that suspicion. His shoulders tense, almost as if he doesn’t even recognize his own disgust.
“My family has always been less complex than your elegant Winthorps,” he calls from paces ahead, continuing to walk without me. “We trade in simpler things: drugs, and guns, and money.”
I force myself to keep moving, chasing him down a narrow corridor and into the dining room. When he takes a seat at the head of the grand table, I maintain the distance between us, staying near the wall.
“No slaves?” I don’t mean to sound mocking.
“Oh, don’t tell me, Little Rose.” Mischa cocks an eyebrow. “You’restillnot impressed. Maybe I’ve pegged you wrong? You more than knew of his business. Maybe you got off on the thrill of it? Being the one woman he chose to keep?”
“The one?” I echo, my brow furrowing. “What makes you think I was his only woman?”
I expect him to sneer at the statement. Not frown.
“Youwere,” he insists. “He may have fucked his whores on the side. I don’t doubt that. Butyouwere the one. The one he claimed. The one he needed.”
It’s almost too twisted to consider. “Needed?”
He laughs. Then he scowls. “To keep him sane.”
A chill runs down my spine. God, it’s like I’m hearing Robert again, hissing his insanity into my ear.I need you, Elle.
“Did he tell you that?” I rasp hoarsely. “Did you talk to him? Before—”
“No.” Mischa shakes his head. “He didn’t have to tell me a damn thing, Little Rose. I just know how pathetic men like him operate. How they crave a woman’s devotion. Especially someone like you, pathetic and weak. If such a creature could still see the good in them, they can justify their fucking madness.Youhelped him sleep at night—”
“Don’t blame me for what he was.” I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until he chuckles, eyeing me with amusement.
“Why not? You said it yourself: He never forced you. You chose to marry him. You chose to fuck him every night. Youchoseto give him your devotion. Don’t lie to me and say you don’t believe for a second that having you in his bed made it easier for him to do the twisted shit you know in your soul he’s capable of?”
Maybe it did.
“But what about you?” I say, turning the tables the only way I know how: comparing them. “If your logic holds, then where is your woman? Your excuse?”
“She’s dead.” His mocking smile falls flat. “And I don’t need anyone to fucking justify my actions.” He shoves back from the table and advances on me too quickly to outrun. When he’s paces away, he cradles my cheek with alarming gentleness, contrasting the anger smoldering in his expression. “You can try your little tricks on me, Little Rose,” he taunts, stroking my jaw. “But I don’t believe salvation can be found in your cunt.”
“S-stop it!” My cheeks flame. “You have a strange idea of love.”
His concept of the emotion is much more potent than mine. To me, love is duty. Sacrifice. But he makes it sound alluring. Dangerous. Capable of shaping men, and even more fantastical: changing them.
“And you don’t?” Frowning, he draws his hand away. I think I’ve confused him. “Don’t tell me… You never believed your fucking Winthorp was a white knight, capable of saving your soul?”
“Of course not.” I force a laugh for good measure. He’s mocking me. He has to be.
“You’re serious.” A shadow falls over his face. “That poor fuck. He thought you were. His wife. His love. He would have fucking begged for you—”
“But now he’s dead,” I interject, my throat tight. “And you? Did you beg for your love?” I don’t know where the question came from—or why I’m so curious as to the answer.
Alarm runs down my spine as his eyes narrow.
“I didn’t,” he says in a soft, lethal tone. “Because I was a stupid fucking fool. I traded her life for another’s. And you want to know something, Little Rose?” His fingers come to trace the hollow of my throat, catching me off guard. “That person wasn’t fucking worthy.”
I recoil and race to the other end of the room, desperate to put distance between us. Anna-Natalia, Vanya’s daughter. He’s talking about her. Traded her life, he said? I have a sinking suspicion whose life he traded it for.
Mine.
