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“Because you are blood.” His eyes flash, reinforcing the heat in his tone. “Heis my blood.”
Tears finally escape, obscuring my vision. When Sergei brushes his hand across my cheek, I can’t even tell if the act contains genuine emotion or not.
“I want to teach you,” he says. “You deserve a seat at the table, as my heir—”
“Your time is up, Sergei.”
I stiffen at the sound of Mischa’s voice.
He lurks near the mouth of the hall, paces away. When he spots Sergei’s hand on my face, his eyes become slits. “I upheld my end of the bargain. Now, you can leave.”
“I’ll continue to provide my support,” Sergei promises and he steps back—out of respect, not fear. “And if I’m needed, my men will know how to contact me. Goodnight.”
I watch him push past me, toward the front of the cottage. His steps echo, slow and heavy, as if he expects me to take him up on his implied offer any minute.
But I remain silent, the perfect prey for Mischa to pounce on. His hand slams against the wall inches from my face, trapping me in place as he corners me from behind.
“Don’t tell me,” he murmurs into my ear. “I missed all the fun, didn’t I—”
I push away from him and lunge for the stairs. Every step is a struggle, and by the time I reach the landing, I’m forced to hobble into the nearest room and slam the door behind me. Then I lean against it for good measure.
This small room contains only a bed and a rickety wooden chair in a corner—there’s nothing to hide behind. I have no defense against the attack that I know is coming.
Sure enough, heavy footsteps rattle the floorboards in my wake.
“What did he say?” Mischa demands harshly through the door. He tests the handle once but doesn’t push the door open. Yet. “What did he say?”
Closing my eyes, I try to ignore him—ignore everything. My psyche is a fractured mirror, and for so damn long, I’ve carefully hoarded the pieces, holding them in place with sheer determination.
Breathe…
Breathe…
“Fine, Rose. Play your little game of silence.”
The walls themselves seem to sigh as Mischa retreats down the steps. He’s angry. I’ll pay for this later in the form of some insult or another.
I don’t care.
His absence depletes my body of any ounce of fight and I slide to my knees. Through blurred vision, I scan the surface of Sergei’s envelope. There are no markings on it. No hint as to its contents. My clenching fingers strain the thin parchment to the point of tearing it.
Then I throw it so hard that it bounces off the opposite wall.
“Ellen?”
Footsteps creep toward my door again. Not Mischa’s, but someone slower, his pace uneven.
“It’s me,” Vanya says and I stiffen. Mischa probably sent him, utilizing another to do his dirty work. “Are you all right?”
“I’m…” In my mind, I envision those shattered pieces that make up who I am. To hold them together, I need to lie. Push back all remnants of the past. Suppress. Repress. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
I attempt to, but the pieces shatter further, and I can’t protect myself from the aftermath.
“You knew Marnie Winthorp,” I croak.
He’s silent for so damn long. I try to imagine his expression, but I can’t. He is an enigma, so different from the callous men I’m used to. Unlike them, Vanya has yet to lie to my face, or hit me, or deceive.
Which makes him more dangerous than a thousand Mischas combined. He’s earned my trust on his own merit.
