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Mischa says nothing. He muscles in closer, forcing my legs wider to make space for his bulk. Like a wall, his body pins me against the mirror. To keep me from falling, I realize. At the same time, he douses my hand in searing liquid and reapplies more gauze with much less tact and expertise than Vanya.
“You won’t die,” he mutters as if annoyed by that fact. “But it shouldn’t keep bleeding with the stitches…” He steps back while I cling to the faucet with my good hand. “Don’t move.” In a ruthless motion, his gaze sweeps over me.
I copy him and choke on a gasp. So much for the new Ellen; my pretty white dress is ruined, painted red.
As I stare, Mischa snags the front of my dress in his fists and yanks, ripping the expensive material right down the middle. Before I can protest, he tosses the remains into a nearby trash can.
“You have five minutes to get changed, then meet me downstairs,” he declares before storming from the room.
Five minutes. I waste three of them trying to remember how to stand on my own before I give up and crawl back to my stack of clothing. This time, I select a black dress. It’s longer, made of wool, with long sleeves. With less than two minutes to spare, I stagger to the top of the stairs and find Mischa glaring up at me from the bottom of them.
I take my time, inching down each step, but he never moves to rush me along. Just as my foot hits the ground floor, he snatches my wrist and pulls me through the front door. The moon hangs above, adding a silvery glow to the harsh darkness that obscures most of our surroundings. I faintly make out three of his men lurking beyond the threshold. They follow us into a waiting van.
In a way that’s beginning to feel routine, Mischa sandwiches me between himself and the door, all but daring me to test the lock on my own. Two of his men take the front and passenger’s seats while the third lingers behind, openly sporting his weapon.
The driver must already know where to go. He takes off without any input from Mischa and the trip commences in tense, unbearable silence. Only a few hours ago, I would have maintained that silence.
Now, a question springs from my lips. I blame the drug. “Have you gone back on your threat? Will you kill me now? Or will you whore me—”
“Oh, but Ididkill you,” Mischa says. He doesn’t bother to lower his voice in the presence of his men. His poisonous tone drips into their ears, infecting us all. “I killed the pathetic little bitch you used to be. And as I told you, whoever you are now…you work for me. Or can you not survive without that fucking mask you called Robert Winthorp?”
“Why?” I’m not talking about the violence or the money. “Why does it even matter what I do? Without Robert, I’m worth nothing to you—”
“Oh.” He chuckles darkly, eyeing his scarred knuckles. “He wouldn’t try to barter for you if you were worthnothing.”
My mind goes blank. “R-Robert tried…to barter for me?”
He didn’t mean to tell me. Irritation flickers across his expression like a ripple in a pond’s otherwise calm surface.
“What did he offer?” I ask.
Rather than answer, he turns to gaze out his window. Everything down to his posture warns me to shut up. Back down. But as he said himself, the woman I once was is gone.
“Money?” I ask. “Land?”
His mouth grows tighter with every guess. I’m shooting in the dark.
“Tell me what he offered!”
“More than a million,” he spits, grating the words through clenched teeth. “And don’t you fucking think for a second that I won’t still slit your goddamn throat—”
“What?” I jerk back against the stiff cushions of the seat. “You’re lying.”
Mischa raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”
My head hurts. I cradle it in my good hand, digging my fingertips into my aching temple. The harder I press, the more confused I feel.
“Then why not trade me? Or send my body to him?” A million. That amount sends a shiver down my spine. Robert was frivolous with money, but never like that. “Why—”
“This was never aboutyou. You were always a worthless fucking token that fell onto the game board. And now?” He gives me a cold, soulless appraisal while stroking his chin. “I just want to see how long it takes me to break the little toy I stole.”
The threat is almost convincing. Almost. But he’s forgotten one thing: I grew up in this world as well and I am well-versed in the language of men and money.
“That doesn’t make sense—”
“I suggest you shut your fucking mouth and carefully consider your remaining options,” he warns. “I don’t have much patience for either widowsorwives—”
“Enough! You are not my husband.”
