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But Mischa broods. In some ways, he reminds me of a child, preferring to stew in his temper—because the alternative requires swallowing his pride and assessing his own actions.
So, instead, he ignores them stubbornly and I’m the one to suffer.
I stiffen as he carries me down the hall and into yet another bathroom. The bench has been moved here, with all the supplies neatly placed within reach, but the tub is bigger. Deeper. Already half-filled with water, it triggers my alarm like nothing else.
He could drown me.
Ironically, Mischa seems oblivious to the dark scenarios my mind conjures. He sets me down and wets a rag. Silently, he tugs my nightgown off and laves my skin with quick, efficient strokes. Watching him, I notice every nuance in him that I otherwise wouldn’t. How tightly he grips the rag, for one—so hard that his knuckles whiten. How his shoulders ripple, distorted by bulging, tensing muscle.
He doesn’t notice the moment I touch him, laying my fingers along his wrist. Not at first. He’s that intent on ignoring me. Beneath my fingertips, I feel him suddenly jerk and he wrenches the arm away. Flashing, his eyes cut up to mine as his lips spring apart.
But I speak first. “How long until I can walk?”
He frowns, but just as quickly, his mouth quirks into a disarming smirk. “Who says I’ll let you?”
He’s joking. He has to be… The second I start to suspect the opposite, he lets the expression fall and returns his focus to the rag.
“The doctor will be here to see you again in a week, Little Rose. Work your charms on him and I’m sure he’ll try to steal you away. You’ll have your freedom in no time—”
“I don’t like it when you mock me.” I’m surprised by how strongly my voice comes out.
“Mocking?” He scoffs and observes me, his head tilted. “Oh no, Little Rose. I’mpredicting. It seems that you have a knack for winning powerful men to your side.”
There it is again. That prickling note of jealousy that seems so out of place in his gruff baritone.
“I don’t want to play this game with you—”
“Game?” Mischa laughs. “Oh no, this isn’t a game to you. This is life. Vanya pities you, but Iknowyou. I know how you could survive a man like Robert Winthorp all these fucking years. You crawled inside his head like a parasite—”
“Robert is who he is without me,” I counter. “I didn’t make him do a damn thing.”
“Oh really? Then you don’t know the bastard as well as you claim to. And I’m starting to think he never knew you, either. His precious wife, a snake—”
“And you’re a murderer.”
“A murderer…” His eyes widen, and then he nods, chuckling. “Yes. Most recently for you. Isn’t that right?” He fingers a strand of my hair, twisting it around his finger. Leaning close, he murmurs near my ear, “I killed Nikolaus foryou.”
“And again, I ask: Is that supposed to impress me?”
“It doesn’t,” he admits, his mouth tilted in amusement. “But you are used to grander displays of affection, aren’t you? Men who parade you before their fucking captives for sport.”
“Stop!” My heart races as my throat resonates with the force of the shout. Mischa has the rag against my thigh and I shove his fingers away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You really want to go through this again?” He drops the rag into the water and stands. “Be my fucking guest.”
But he doesn’t leave. He’s there near the door, watching. To mock me. To gloat.
“You want to know the real difference between you and Robert?” I croak, knowing he can hear me. Goading him is a dangerous, foolish act—but I can’t stop myself. My eyes burn as I shift my weight as much as I dare. My bandaged foot might be able to bear weight. Gingerly, I lower it to the floor, guiding my thigh between my hands. I tentatively bear down and the knee buckles. “He is selfish,” I say, gritting my teeth in frustration. My body is too weak to stand.
So I’ll crawl.
I don’t think about the pain or the potential consequences of injuring myself further. Clenching my jaw, I throw my weight to one side of the bench and brace myself with my hands. Sure enough, the bench topples beneath me and a monstrous crash echoes throughout the room. Pain sears along my side, but I can still move.
“He is selfish,” I repeat, dragging myself forward with the friction caught beneath my fingertips. “But you? You are childish. I knew what Robert thought of me. What he felt. What he feared. He could admit it out loud.” Even in the form of a mindless, enraged rant. “But he didn’t lash out and brood like a child—”
“Enough,” Mischa growls as I reach for the rim of the tub. “Stop this. You’ve made your point.”
He advances and shuts the water off. Then he grabs my waist and positions me upright by the water’s edge.
