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Sergei’s warning intrudes on the innocent thought: Does Mischa intend to use him for his own gain?
I pull my hand away and it’s like flipping a switch. Mischa opens his eyes, homing them on me. He shifts and captures my wrist, resettling my hand over the tattooed flesh above where his heart resides.
“See something you like, Rose?” he wonders, his voice husky.
“What doyousee when you look at me?” I ask. “A pawn? A willing victim? Or is it leverage—”
He sighs and releases me. “Someone hasn’t been paying attention.”
I wait for him to shove me off and storm away, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I. With my face against his chest, I can hear his heart beating. The steady, gentle thrum is my translator for whatever his face doesn’t express. He may be wearing a shadow of a scowl, but he isn’t angry.
He’s…content. Such a strange concept that I have to feel it rather than observe. In him, peace is expressed in slow, heavy breathing and muscles that twitch only slightly when I run my fingers over them.
“Maybe I need to hear you say it out loud?” I counter, using his saying to my advantage.
“Hmm.” He hums low in his throat and then looks down on me from across the scarred, tattooed planes of his chest. “Out loud… How about: Robert Winthorp begged for you the second I realized you weren’t Briar? He offered millions to have you back. He even offered to trade his own sister. Then he killed his father with his bare hands. By then, you weren’t of any use to me but as bait, so what reason would I have for keeping you?”
I mull over the question, trying to view the world as he does, where everyone has a price tag—even little girls who are intentionally silenced in order to play a role in some criminal enterprise.
“You could want to use me as a sex slave?” I venture to guess. “You did threaten to sell me.”
He scoffs. “I beat Konstantin Vorshev within an inch of his life—not because he was a lying cunt, selling me out to Winthorp. No… Because he touched you. He hurt you.” He reaches out, dragging his fingers along my cheek. “I kept Mouse—not that I would ever sell her back to Nicolai—but I kept her here because she reminded me of you. You look at me the same fucking way: like you’re waiting for the moment I’ll pull out my knife and run you through.” He laughs, but it’s a hollow, empty sound. “And if you’re worried about him. Your son…” He tilts his head back, eyeing the ceiling. “There is Robert Winthorp in him. I can see it. He can be ruthless when he plays.” He laughs, and it’s real this time. “He declared ‘war’ on the roses in the garden and decapitated an entire bush of them. That boy is definitely a Winthorp.”
I stiffen, but not out of fear. It’s the first time he’s said that name with something other than hate lacing it: admiration?
“But he has more of you. His eyes. His laugh. As young as he is, he isn’t afraid to show compassion or guilt. I think he’ll grow up just fine, Rose.”
I look away, blinking rapidly. “Thanks to Anna.”
“No.” He guides my chin into the palm of his hand, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Anna may be part of it, but some of it is you.”
“And do you think you can use him in ways you’re unwilling to use me?” I have to ask him.
He sighs. “I should be. I’m sure Robert would pay just as much or even more to have him back. But I’m a selfish fuck, Rose.” He sits up, bringing me with him, and pushes the covers back. “He isn’t going anywhere.”
My heart swells, sensing the ruthless promise contained within that boast.
“Thank you,” I rasp.
“But he’s not the only reason you’re worried,” he suspects. “I’ve seen you watching me and Anna together.”
I bite my lip, but the pain does little to counteract the flood of fire searing my cheeks. “You loved her. I can understand that—”
“I still do,” he says. “But not how you think. We grew up together. In some ways, we were more like siblings than anything else. And if something more might have come from it…” He shrugs and slides his arm from around me. Before I can mourn the loss of heat, his hand captures mine. “We will never know.”
Letting me go, he stands and grabs his pants from the floor. “But, now, I need to askyousomething. Sergei put that suspicion into your head. Didn’t he?”
I briefly consider denying it—whatever is brewing between the two men, something warns me that it isn’t good. In the end, I nod. “He said you might have ‘plans’ for him.”
Mischa scoffs. “I might have plans… Do you trust him?”
The hostility in his tone stings. “I-I don’t know—”
“I don’t.” He pulls his shirt on and starts to pace, speaking to me from over his shoulder. “The night you were taken—from right under his fucking nose, I might add—he put on a grand show, Sergei. But something was off.”
I sit straighter, bracing my feet on the floor. “What do you mean?”
He could be giving in to paranoia, but I can’t ignore my own suspicions. As much as I try to deny it, our escape was too damn easy.
“I know the man,” Mischa says, frowning as he dissects his thoughts. “I know when he’s worried. I know when he’s afraid. But that night, he wasn’t.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying: Watch the man for yourself. Listen to everything he says, and use that smart brain of yours, Rose.” He taps his finger on his forehead for emphasis. “I’d say I’m not a very complicated man. I plan directly and go for the jugular. But Sergei plays mind games. I warned you once and I will warn you again: He was the most effective and ruthless leader themafiyahad. Don’t forget that. Now, get dressed.” He tosses something to me that I barely manage to catch: my plain dress. “I want to show you something.”
