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Chapter 14
Ican’t disguise the shock distorting my features. My mouth is open, my eyes wide. Finally, I regain my composure enough to rasp, “That’s…evil.”
“Yes,” Mischa agrees, surprisingly earnest. “And if anyone should have agreed with that plan, it should have been Vanya, right? It washisdaughter we wanted to rescue—or avenge if we couldn’t. He, more than anyone, should have been howling for Winthorp blood. But when he heard what Sergei planned…” He frowns, reliving the past. “He was furious. Livid. I didn’t understand why, not then. But he threatened his own brother’s life if he touched Briar.”
For my mother? My heart feels too battered to consider it, so I bite the thought back.
“You agreed with Sergei?” I ask, assuming the obvious: Two men came to me that night, creeping through the shadows of Briar’s room.
“I went with him anyway,” Mischa admits. “I thought Ivan was a stupid fool. Anna should have been his focus. Anna…” He grits his teeth and exhales harshly. “But when I saw her—you—I knew then and there which man I wanted to follow. Vanya may have been a fool, but…” He looks up and my heart pangs at what I find: something elusive but real enough that Vanya pledged his life to nurture it. “I’ve killed men before—with my bare fucking hands, even. But that was different. I couldn’t… Not that.”
“And that’s why Vanya loves you,” I interject. “He loves you like a son because he can see the good in you—”
“Or maybe I’m just a feral dog he wants to keep close.” He flexes his fingers against the table’s surface as if uncomfortable with that assessment. “Whatever his reasons, he left Sergei after that.”
My mind spins, fighting to reconcile this new piece of information with what I know now. If Marnie saved Anna, why not tell Vanya? Could she really be so cruel as to allow his daughter to rot in a Winthorp dungeon alone?
But even so, shedidsave his child in the end.
And Vanya saved hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I ask, returning my focus to Mischa.
“Because of this.” He reaches out, flicking his fingers accusingly along my jaw. “That look. Like you know me. Pity me. Tell me.” He leans in close, letting his breath ghost my cheek. “Am I worthy of your pity, Rose?”
My reply comes automatically. “Yes.”
He may be a brute and a monster and—at times—a psychopath. But his world shaped him this way. Somehow, someway, it hasn’t entirely consumed him. Not yet.
“Wrong answer,” he scolds as if it’s a mortal offense. “You should be afraid of me, Rose. Deathly afraid. Shall I tell you why?” He boldly sweeps his gaze down to the high neckline of my dress and my skin prickles with answering goosebumps. “Because the things I want to do to you… They aren’t very nice.”
His hand shakes as he reaches for me again, batting another strand of my hair. In the process, he brushes over the place Robert hit me and I flinch. Instantly, he withdraws and something I’m not expecting flickers across his face. Guilt?
“I’ll let you decide when I—”
“Tell me.” I risk meeting his gaze when he stays silent and my belly clenches at what I find brimming there. Only the most primal terms in my arsenal can describe it: raw, naked lust. “Those things you want to do…” I reiterate before licking my lower lip. “Was it all just talk?”
“Oh?” He chuckles low in his throat, cocking his head. More than ever, he resembles a snarling wolf ready to pounce.
And in response, I bare my throat.
“I want to rip that hideous dress off you, for one.” He casts my frock a glance of disgust. “Then I’ll wash you. Count those marks and divots in your skin, make sure every hair is still there, just as I left it…”
My breath catches. “And then?”
“I’ll remind you,” he says. “How to scream the only man’s name you’re allowed to say in full. Do you remember it?” His eyes flash as my lips part.
“Mischa…”
The involuntary grunt erupting from his throat spurs me on.
“Mikhailovich…Stepanov.”
“Good,” he praises thickly. His knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table. “But that wasn’t quite a scream...”
He rises to his full height and approaches me, skirting the barrier between us.
A million nuances in his posture stick out when they otherwise never would. The jerk of his throat betraying a hard swallow. The alarming gleam in his gaze.
How his muscles ripple, thrumming with ravenous intent.
I shudder in anticipation of his touch even before his hand cups my cheek and forces my head back. He eyes me like this, hunting my expression for something I’m not sure he finds when he draws me up to him and presses his mouth to mine.
The kiss is slower than expected. Like two stray animals reconnecting after an unexpected absence. Has their dynamic changed? They’re unsure. Slow, searching touches become grasping exploration until they finally deduce what the other intends.
On his end? Corruption.
All at once, he pulls me from the chair and shoves me toward the bed. Seconds later, my dress is on the floor and he’s on top of me, guiding himself between my legs. There is no slow, teasing buildup—just surrender.
And possession.
