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Chapter 16
Imust spend hours pacing this bare fucking room. Marnie’s presence feels realer now more than ever. It’s like she’s mocking me sweetly from the grave:What are you doing, my Rose? Do what I did. Give in…
Stubbornly, I pace until the tapping of my footsteps drowns her out—but I don’t catch the sound of the door opening until it’s too late. My intruder is already inside, closing the door.
“You need to get ready,” Mischa snaps, raking his gaze over my rumpled shirt and jeans. “Damn. Do you even have anything to wear—”
His eyes darken as he approaches the bed and inspects the dress Sergei provided. It’s a deep navy with a bold neckline, made of silk. Mischa must approve of it, because he snatches the fabric in his fist and throws it in my direction.
“Put it on.”
“Why?” I croak, letting the dress land in a crumpled heap at my feet. “Aren’t you bored of having me used as a pawn in your twisted games? I know I am—”
“Sergeiwants you as a pawn,” he agrees. “But as for me… I want to see if you even have the balls to play the game. Lift your arms.” He stoops for the gown and gestures for me to undress. “Hurry up. They won’t take you seriously looking like some naïve innocent, Rose. I can assure you of that.”
“How can I trust you?” Even as I voice the question, I stiffly lift the shirt over my head.
“You don’t have to,” Mischa counters. He steps in close and tugs on the clasp of my jeans himself. “Use your brain. A man like Sergei wants to manipulate you for his own gain. The only way to outmaneuver him is to outsmart him.”
“And what about you?”
I’m naked now, painfully aware of how close he is. His breath bastes the flesh of my throat as he drapes the gown over my head and tugs it into place.
I watch him work, hunting his expression for a hint of conniving intent. “What do you hope to gain?”
He looks away. “Believe it or not, Little Rose, I only want the truth… Now, listen. Sergei will invite you to speak. He’ll want you to argue against continuing the war with the Winthorps. But is that what you really want?”
Ending the war. The violence. The bloodshed. “Shouldn’t that be what you want?”
“Of course.” He looks me over—but whatever he sees makes him hiss through his teeth. “Turn around.” When I comply, he positions himself behind me and I stiffen as his fingers sink through my hair, parting it roughly.
“What are you doing?”
“Improvising,” he grunts in reply. “To answer your question: Of course that’s what I want. But I’m not foolish, Rose. I know that wars rarely end with a handshake and goodwill. Someone tends to wind up with a knife in their back. I would rather this end in a hailstorm of fucking fire than…”
“Than what?” I demand when he falls silent.
“Than in checkmate.” He continues to tug at my hair, arranging it with far more confidence than a man like him should have. Once finished, he spins me around and nods in approval. “With Sergei Vasilev at the head of the gameboard, I can’t win this round, but you can. Andnow, you’re ready.”
He guides me into the bathroom and I catch sight of our reflections in the mirror.
“You’re good with your hands,” I grudgingly admit.
The woman standing before him is a stranger at first. Her hair has been expertly coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck. The navy of her gown highlights the blue of her eyes. For a second, it’s like I’m staring into the past at someone else. The only difference is the prominent scar proclaiming my place in this war: fifteen.
“You look the part,” Mischa admits.
My opinion differs. “I look like my mother.”
“A player,” he corrects. From him, such a term might be a compliment. “But now you need to decide what role you will play. And trust and believe, Little Rose—I won’t go easy on you this round.”
I flick my fingers along the silk skirt of the dress. “What do I need to expect?”
The lastmafiyagathering I attended proceeded much like an outlaw court.
Where transgressions were paid for in blood.
But this meeting, with power on the line?
