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He acknowledges my presence with a hiss, his eyes casting me a dismissive glance. “Robert Winthorp’s whore.”
I swallow hard as fire paints my cheeks. A part of me bristles at the insult, and I know what Mischa would do if he overheard: flex his muscle. Demand obedience.
But I am not him.
Tilting my head back, I meet the man’s gaze directly, forcing him to maintain the eye contact far longer than comfortable. After all, only a coward would dare look away from a whore.
“I guess that means I know him better than anyone,” I counter, surprised by how little my voice wavers. “Doesn’t it?”
The man grunts and returns his attention to his painting. It depicts an ancient battlefield, where blood and mud churn in a sickening mass beneath fighting soldiers.
“I suppose so. But make no mistake, girl. I am not one of the besotted fools who think you may have some worth. Mischa called this little party for a reason. What?”
“No reason,” I admit. “I simply wanted to learn.”
“Oh?”
“I wanted to see for myself if any of you men truly have anything more to offer the world than someone like Robert Winthorp?”
His eyes flash and I know I’m on dangerous ground. Mischa relies on brute strength, Sergei on cunning, but what kind of combatant am I?
Neither, I’m realizing.
My strength may lie in something between the two. A skill that only a “whore” might possess and be willing to wield to its full potential. Something within my grasp, even now as Robert waits for me beyond these walls and secrets threaten the fragile security around me.
I excel at utilizing desperation.
To an artform.
“Tell me,” Somodorov demands. “Why the hell should I entertain a child who got her say by fucking the head of the table? What could you possibly offer me?”
“It’s simple.” I copy him, observing the painting as well. In a way, it’s a physical manifestation of our conversation. Mindless and static, mainly for show. The outcome is already set in stone: an eternal stalemate. “I can’t offer you anything. Yet. But I think you know better than I do how alliances can change and that power can shift on a whim.”
“Oh?” He laughs deep in his throat. “I don’t have time for this—”
“Let me put it this way.” I raise my voice just enough to stop him in his tracks. “You control mercenaries, correct? Who stands to lose more if the war with the Winthorps is over?”
“I have more important matters than Mischa’s squabbles,” the man scoffs.
“Fair enough. But then who might stand to see you as a threat if Robert is gone entirely? I don’t think Mischa would care, but what about someone who may want to ensure they keep control of Winthorp estate themselves?”
He frowns and I instinctively brace. I’m on a tightrope. One wrong move and the consequences will be swift and brutal.
“Are you even suggesting what I think you are?”
“Of course not.” I innocently incline my head. “But maybe your thoughts go in the same direction as mine? Some men would do anything to maintain their power. But a whore? All she would want is…peace.”
Beyond his shoulder I find Mischa, watching us, his face unreadable.
“Excuse me.” I slip past Somodorov, my heart pounding.
“I see you went for the most dangerous prey out of the gate,” Mischa remarks once I reach him. The gruffness of his voice contrasts the odd tilt to his mouth betraying an emotion he’s trying to resist: admiration. “He must like you. Alexi tends to stab what offends him.” He eyes my throat, finding it unscathed. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” I rasp. “But I’m not sure I want to be a wolf for very long.”
Not because I’m scared.
But because…
Toying the line between caution and power, I enjoyed every second of it.
I enjoyed it way too much.
