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Chapter 11
Darkness shrouds the interior of the van when it finally comes to an abrupt stop. Consciousness is a battle I’ve fought to the bitter end. By now, my bloodshot eyes can barely open wide enough to make out my surroundings. Beyond the van, the vague outline of a structure looms, ghosted by moonlight.
Could it be Winthorp Manor?
Or was my escape more than a fantastical dream?
“Stay with me, Little Rose.”
I jump as someone opens the door on my side. Cool air spills in and I find myself in familiar arms without warning.
“I’ve got you.”
My head lolls against a muscled shoulder, a stern jaw the only focal point I can fixate on. God, he looks older, aged overnight. From this angle, the shadows beneath his eyes hollow his features, more defined than ever.
“Am I safe?” I ask, my voice a broken whisper. Despite everything, I’m curious as to his answer. Will he make the same boast Robert did once his pawn was back within his possession?Safe. Safe. Safe.
I wait for a mocking taunt, but he says nothing else as he carries me toward a grand structure that, at a glance, I can tell dwarfs even his old manor in comparison.
Sergei’s property?
It’s made of stone, at least four stories tall. The layout isn’t as flashy as that of Winthorp Manor’s. Regal and modest, it’s more enclosed: a family home rather than a status symbol.
In the fading light, I make out a paved courtyard containing a small garden casting a mockingly sweet aroma as we pass. Up ahead, a massive door opens and from it rushes Vanya.
“Thank God,” he says, spotting us. “You found her—”
“Papa?”
That voice stops him dead in his tracks, and I fear he’ll collapse. Wildly, he scans the area before his gaze finally fixates on something beyond us.
“No,” he croaks, his voice rasping. “No, it can’t be…”
A hesitant step propels him down the stone path. Then another, until he’s running across the courtyard. I turn in time to catch a slender figure limping toward him.
“Papa!” Instantly, she’s engulfed in his arms and they sink to their knees, heedless of the paved stone beneath them. It’s too raw of a moment to ogle for long. Too intimate.
I turn away, surprised to find Mischa staring resolutely ahead as well. Once we reach the entrance to the manor, he carries me into the grand foyer beyond it. Here, the mood shifts entirely as we’re approached by a watchful Sergei.
“You found her,” the older man says, eyeing me with a terse nod. “How?”
“Ask her,” Mischa says, jostling me in his arms. “In fact, how fucking useful are you and your so-called expert intel?”
“Something happened.” Sergei’s eyes narrow imperceptibly. “Explain.”
“No. How about you explain?” Mischa stops short of running into the other man altogether—for my sake, I suspect.
Trapped between them, I’m the only one who would suffer.
“For one,” Mischa continues, “explain why, despite all your intel on the Winthorps, you’ve never mentioned that yourrealniece was alive?”
Sergei frowns. “What are you…” Then he turns to the commotion in the courtyard and something flits across his face so quickly that I can barely trace it. Shock?
Before I can be sure, he’s already halfway to his brother and his niece.
“I thought you were dead,” I admit to Mischa. I’m still in his arms, in a hallway, I think. Then a room. “I thought—”
“You need to sleep,” he says, lowering me to a soft surface I assume to be a bed.
