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Chapter 9
Mischa is a fickle captor. One moment, he’s seemingly merciful, offering my heart’s desire. The next, he’s content to let me rot.
I’m too tired to put up much of a fight. Instead, I return to my room and curl up on the lone mattress.
My body hums in the aftermath of his violence, like an instrument played to the breaking point—but one used how it’s meant to. Ruthlessly thorough. His hands stroke parts of me to exhaustion, making them sing a painful tune.
But it’s not music. It’s twisted, ugly noise.
In contrast, Robert used me like a tool. His lust was a sledgehammer against a glass nail. Two items well-suited in theory—but in reality, the latter was destined to break. I can’t recall the way he felt inside me. I don’t want to. Thoughts of him are the remnants of a terrible storm. The details are hazy, but the aftermath is a stark nightmare I’ll always relive.
And Mischa wants to be him.
In a funny, terrifying way, it should be easy to swap them out. Pain for pain. Lust for lust. Brutality for brutality.
It should be easy…
But Mischa brings a different kind of agony, so unique that I lack the vocabulary needed to describe it. If Robert had my love, Mischa claims something else. Some hateful part of me I loathe almost as much as I desperately want to feel it. I’m not a numb bird in a cage when he touches me.
I’m a hellcat, aching to scratch him as viciously as he brutalizes me.
In his bed, I’m angry, and vengeful, andalive.
Even scarred and brutalized, I can endure every second of his torment.
Maybe the constant game is better than the surrender I’m accustomed to.
At least I’ll go insane faster.
What a pathetic creature he’s turned me into.
I find snatches of sleep in his absence. When I finally crawl from the mattress, it’s dark. Shadows paint the corners of my room and I have to feel my way into the bathroom.
I shower quickly, scrubbing my tormentor away. Naked, I retreat to my bedroom and fish a new outfit from my piles of clothing. My fingers settle rebelliously over one garment in particular: a simple pink dress nearly shapeless in design with a modest neckline.
He accused me of still dressing like I belong to Robert—but when I remember my reasoning for choosing this dress, my husband isn’t who comes to mind. Robert liked me swathed in layers and festooned with pretty, frilly things. Lace. Ribbons.
He liked me bundled up like a package only he could tear apart.
This dress? I could smuggle cocaine underneath it in the place of a child if I had to. It would provide sufficient cover if I were locked in an animal’s cage, and I could also climb trees in it.
More importantly, a madman could easily slide his fingers beneath it.
And every time I look down at the soft, delicate color, I would remember who I am.Ellen,who likes pink. Not because of Briar or Mischa—but in spite of them both.
My fingers shake as I wrench the dress over my head just as sounds drift from the hall. Footsteps. Mischa? Only God knows what new horror he has in store.
I wait, my spine rigid, as the figure advances toward my door and the doorknob rattles. Strange. Vanya knocks, whereas Mischa would just barge in. The second I think as much, the door opens.
A man stands there. He’s too thin to be Mischa, his face obscured by shadow.
“I’m supposed to take you to him,” he says.
“Who? Mischa?” I take a step forward, so conditioned to follow orders. But then something tugs at the back of my mind and I stop short.
As much as he loathes Robert, Mischa has performed similarly in how he lords his ownership over me. He comes to me himself. Alone. Never before has he sent anyone but Vanya in his place.
I scan the new man more intently, hunting for anything worth noting. Though he’s wearing the same gray fatigues as Mischa and his men, I don’t recognize his face.
