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It’s like that first day all over again—trapped with him. My initial instinct is to run. I turn on my heel to do just that, but Mouse digs her nails into my wrist and yanks me back. She’s surprisingly strong for someone so small. I look down and find her gritting her teeth as she inclines her head down the hall. Apparently, her room is nearby.
“Tired?” Mischa advances a step, his eyes narrowed, and unease washes over me. In an instant, he’s switched from playful to guarded as only he can. His jaw twitches as if chewing over the words he plans to say next. Then he shrugs and continues moving, pushing past me. “Suit yourself.”
The chill in his voice resonates down to my core. But before it can fully sink in, Mouse tugs me forward and I have no choice but to follow.
Her room is smaller than mine, but not far down. The layout of the floor curves—a giant oval centered around the staircase. Together, Mouse and I find a clean pair of underwear and a maid, who promptly supplies sanitary napkins.
“It should last for seven days or so,” I explain as she throws herself onto a modest bed draped in yellow sheets. “The worst thing you’ll experience is the cramping. You should learn to anticipate it, trust me. Mine should be due…” I do the math in my head and then bite my lip so hard that it bleeds. “Um…any day now,” I croak. “Maybe I’ll get to join in your misery?”
I try to smile, but her lips remain resolute in a flat, stubborn line.
“So you are twelve,” I say, switching subjects. I wonder if Mischa knew that. Looking at her, I wouldn’t guess her any older than nine or ten. “Where are you from?”
She looks away from me, her mouth wrinkling. Then she points to a portrait hanging above the bed.
“The ocean?” I guess, deciphering the clue from the framed scene of a stormy beach.
She shrugs and raises her arm before quickly extending it.
“There was fishing there?” I say, interpreting her miming.
She nods and then returns to her stiff, hunched position, looking at everything but me.
“Can you speak?” I know I’m unwanted here. But maybe she’s preferable to the silence and thoughts of Robert and Mischa. Admittedly, a feral dog hungry for my blood would be preferable. “Or do you just choose not to—”
“She can.”
I jump as the door opens from the outside, revealing Mischa behind it. He crosses his arms, oblivious as Mouse’s cheeks turn blood red.
“How long were you standing there?” I demand.
“The girl can hear, so she isn’t mute,” he says, shrugging me off. “She can speak, but it’s probably painful, and she wouldn’t be able to say much, if anything at all. It’s a trick that Nicolai uses to silence all of his drug mules. He gives them a daily dose of a chemical cocktail that causes permanent, lasting damage to the vocal cords if taken long enough.”
Horror drains any irritation I may feel toward him. “That’s horrible—” I break off as Mouse jumps from the bed and storms past Mischa, her hands in fists.
“What’s wrong?” He reaches for her arm, but she easily evades him and dashes into the hall. Narrowed, his eyes cut toward me. “What did you say to her?”
“Me?” I scoff. “Maybe she’s alarmed by the man who just rudely barged into her room and overheard a private conversation? How muchdidyou overhear?”
“I don’t know.” Mischa frowns, stroking his chin. “Something about fishing.”
“What do you know about her?” I blurt, staring at the space she occupied. In so many ways, she seems to fit that stupid nickname. A mysterious, scurrying creature.
“Not much,” he admits. “Just what I managed to get out of Nicolai. She was sold to settle a debt.”
And he callously threw her into his drug trade.
“Her story isn’t as rare as you might think. In fact…” He looks up, meeting my gaze, and alarm jolts down my spine. I step back instinctively, but he’s already advancing twice as fast. “Plenty of women find themselves caught up in the schemes of evil men. Isn’t that right? Or at least that is the tale they want you to believe…”
He reaches for me, twisting a lock of my hair between his fingers.
“Stop!” I bat his hand away, and he cocks his head as if finally learning the answer to a puzzling question. “You should be with Anna,” I croak.
“And where should you be,Elle?” he bites back. “How soon before I can expect Robert Winthorp knocking on the front fucking door, following the trail of crumbs you’ve left for him?”
My hand lashes out with no input from my brain. It’s only as I feel the sting through my palm that I realize what I’ve done: I’ve slapped him.
And I don’t regret one fucking second.
