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My foot extends at the exact moment I’m shoved aside, crushed against the door by Mischa’s bulk. At the same time, he snatches the steering wheel, twisting it hard to the left.
Vomit crawls up my throat as the world twists and turns. Tires squeal. Another cry comes from the back seat, and above it all, a deep voice reiterates the same statement.
“It’s all right. It’s all right.”
The reassurance isn’t directed at me, but it acts as an anchor anyway. I’m grounded by the unsettling baritone as my body is flung toward an unseen destination. Whether it’s a comforting presence remains to be seen.
“It’s all right. It’s all-fucking-right.”
I don’t know how long he makes me stay like that, pinned beneath him, my foot on the gas. For hours, it seems like. When he finally grunts out a command to let up, my leg is cramping.
“Switch places.”
The van drifts aimlessly as he shifts his weight to shove me into the passenger’s seat while he claims my place with envious dexterity. The man moves like a dancer in some ways. In others, he’s like a battering ram.
Looking out the window, I can’t even begin to place our surroundings. Trees loom in every direction, rendering the landscape more desolate than before. There’s nothing around for miles.
Including Robert’s van.
“Where are we?” I warily ask.
“Far away from your husband.” Mischa’s disarming half-smile returns and my stomach dips in response. “Don’t look so disappointed.” He frowns, turning his attention to the back seat. The next second, the van skids to a stop and he’s leaping from the vehicle and climbing into the back. Craning my neck, I see what caught his attention: the girl utterly still on her back.
She isn’t moving.
“Fuck!” Mischa’s beside her in seconds, tugging her small body into his arms. “Don’t,” he snarls. His eyes are wide—crazed. I’ve never seen him like this. “Don’t you fucking dare, Aljona. Don’t you fucking dare…” He lowers his head, eyeing her chest intently. Whatever he senses makes him sigh and he sets her down. “She’s alright—”
“And you care.” I don’t mean to sound so cold. Judgmental, even.
“Don’t sound so hopeful, Little Rose,” Mischa scolds as he backs out of the van. “There’s still some shrapnel in her shoulder that needs to be removed. How else can I sell her without keeping her alive?”
I try not to flinch. He’s baiting me, and this time, I refuse to bite.
“You called her Aljona,” I point out, my throat dry. “Is that her name?”
I know it isn’t.
“What?” Mischa flinches and looks away. Annoyed? “She’ll live,” he says instead, slamming the door to the back seat. As he returns to the driver’s seat, I hear him grunt, “For now.”
“And youdocare about her.” Maybe I’m needling him. Maybe I need to see his face as it hardens against that assumption. He grits his teeth, glowering at the road.
But he doesn’t deny it out loud.
Not once.
A monster could be concerned for the welfare of a child—but in my world, that shouldn’t be the case. Robert taught me well, after all.
Or perhaps only now can I reconcile the fact that he only ever told me lies.
