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Chapter 20
He doesn’t come for me in the morning—or if he does, I don’t give him the chance to. I hobble to the bathroom myself and bathe behind a locked door. For clothing, I settle on one of the items I picked out for myself what feels like an eternity ago: a dark sweater and a loose pair of jeans.
A part of me wants to stay in here forever. Hide from the monsters in my life. Pretend I have any say in doing so. Lie to myself. Is that how my mother survived her days? The more I think of her, the less clearly I can recall her memory. Not the sweet, smiling woman who tucked me into bed some nights, but a haunted shadow. Someone with more secrets than answers, and even now, I’m not sure I want to learn them all.
Eventually, the heat of the bath water fades and I have no choice but to escape into the hall, using my crutches for balance. Out here, I realize that Mischa might be the least of my worries. Something in the air is different: a sense, a feeling. It permeates the narrow hallway, seeping through my skin. Unease? Just a few paces from the bathroom, my ears catch the distant sounds of men talking. Furiously.
“What do you mean?” a man demands. Mischa. “You think they’re here? Would the bastard really be so fucking bold?”
“What is your gut telling you?” someone replies gruffly. Vanya. “Something isn’t right—”
“It’s Winthorp,” Mischa hisses. “He’s planning something. Or maybe Sergei… Fuck these goddamn games!”
“Well then what are you going to do about it?”
I hear them both move farther into the house, splintering off in different directions. Vanya’s slow, uneven gait heads away from me, while the other set…
I watch him ascend the stairs dressed in gray fatigues, his hair wild and untamed. His eyes find mine, dark with an unreadable emotion. Without a word, he cocks his head, beckoning me to follow him into a nearby room. His office.
My heart beats unsteadily, and I start to turn away.
“We need to talk.” The grit in his voice draws my attention despite everything. He’s wary about something. Me?
He’s seated behind the desk when I finally enter the room, his hands braced flat over the surface.
“You’re coming with me tonight.” He looks up, seeking out my gaze. “I’m meeting someone with information on your husband. You say you’re truly free of him? Prove it to me—”
“Why should I?” I counter, my voice soft. “Why should I believe anything you say?”
“You don’t.” He pushes back from the desk and stands. “But use your brain, Little Rose. You want information on your husband? Your mother?”
He lets the question hang in the air like a tempting piece of bait.
“Then be ready tonight.” He wants to say something else, I suspect. His lips twitch and then twist into that stubborn frown. Without another word, he leaves, retreating down the hall.
My heart clenches with an emotion I can’t name. More confusion? The man delivers it in spades, like a poison meant to affect me when all of his other attempts have failed. All I can do to survive the effects of it is…
Breathe.
I inhale raggedly between every step I take. At first, I head for my room, but something makes me pass it and turn the corner to that forgotten wing. I test the doors one by one, surprised to find most of them locked. The few that aren’t open onto dark, dusty closets that contain nothing of real interest.
Mischa guards his secrets well, it seems. Well enough that I’m exhausted by the time I return to my designated sick room—not that I can enjoy the peaceful quiet for long.
He comes at the time when Vanya would usually bring my evening meal, his steps hesitant near the threshold. With the door already opened, I can make out the sliver of his shadow outstretched over the floor. He says nothing, and I have to rise from the bed and approach him to convey my intent.
His eyes narrow, and then he turns, leading the way to the lower level. To my surprise, he takes me to the stairs, forcing me to hobble down and balance my crutches while clinging to the banister. Dripping sweat, I watch him, trying to decipher his motive. To punish me?
No. His arms twitch at his sides as if he’s stopping himself from offering assistance. Maybe because he knows I’ll rebuff his attempts—regardless, he stays close. Close enough to catch me should I fall…
His eyes, however, reveal nothing as they track my descent, and the moment I’m close enough, he marches for the door, leaving me to follow. Two of his men wait outside near an idling van. One takes the driver’s seat, while the other climbs into the farthest row at the back of the van, which leaves me and Mischa to claim the middle.
Mischa makes me get in first and snatches the crutches once I’m seated. To my alarm, he leaves them there on the driveway before climbing in himself and slamming the door after us.
“What are you doing?” I croak.
“You won’t need them.” He stares from the window on his end, his posture tense.
Alarm dances down my spine in deadly anticipation. Very few things make Mischa pensive—none of them good for me.
