“How did she die?”
“Oh, Little Rose…” He laughs that cruel, callous laugh and my stomach sinks. I’ve gone too far. “Do you think you can handle the gory details? Are you that hungry to hear tales of your husband’s crimes?”
Of Robert? No. My tongue flits across my lower lip in a futile bid for silence. I want to say nothing. “You said she had your soul,” I blurt out instead.
“Oh?” The mattress jolts as Mischa lowers himself onto it, sitting with his back toward me. His shape flickers, followed by a heavy thud. He’s taking off his boots. “Do you think I’ll cry if I relay her pain to you? You want to feel sympathy for me, the monster of your precious fucking fairytale with Robert Winthorp?”
“I want to understand you.” My cheeks flame at the confession, but it’s too late to take it back. Sighing, I continue. “Vanya said that you used to be different—no. Iknowyou used to be different.”
Sixteen years ago, he saved my life. Even if he didn’t realize just who I was at the time. For the first time in ages, I let myself picture him as he must have been then. His face was softer. His posture was lighter. His sister was still alive, I suspect.
“She died, Little Rose,” Mischa says, his tone cold and final. “It doesn’t matter how. All that matters is the why: Your family took her away from me—”
“You’re not the only one who lost someone to the Winthorps.”
Oh, God no. My fingers fly to my lips as if to seal the confession away. But it’s too late.
Like a shark sensing fresh blood, Mischa cocks his head. His arm sweeps out and the fingers aim for my stomach. “You meanthis,” he says without elaborating. It’s like the bastard is in my head, sensing the thoughts I’ve locked away, even from myself. “Tell me.”
“No.”
His hand presses more firmly, as if he can crush the answers from me. “Why?”
“Because…” I close my eyes as the truth escapes me once again. “Because I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you not to use it against me—and I willdieif you use this against me.”
“Die,” he scoffs. Then the bed shifts as he lies back, stretching his legs out before him, but he says nothing as he thinks. “You think I care about what upsets you?”
I’m prepared for his mocking, but his voice lacks the hostility I’m used to. Instantly, my guard rises. “I think you care about very few things.”
“You’re wrong.”
I jump as my hair is disturbed. He’s taken a lock of it, twisting it around his fingers.
“I don’t care about a damn thing.”
“That’s a sad way to live,” I say, my voice rasping.
“Is it?” His voice is louder, murmured near my ear. “And what about you, Robert’s wife? What do you care about in that tiny, shriveled heart of yours? Him?”
I sigh, suddenly exhausted. Years of suffering Robert’s games have never drained me like a few minutes with Mischa does.
“I want to know why you are the way you are,” I tell him. “I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know why a man like you is so afraid of seeming like anything less than a heartless monster. Even for a second.”
“And I want to know why a woman like you would sell your soul to Robert Winthorp.” He grips my chin, wrenching my head in his direction.
In the dark, he looks more demonic than human. All I can make out are his eyes. Flashing, fiery embers.
“I want to know why that same woman would give herself to me. Why sometimes she looks at me like I’m her fucking dog and she owns my leash.” He yanks me closer and his breath on my neck burns me. Consumes me. “I want to know why she moans my name when I’m inside her and whispershisin her sleep. I want to know why she’s in my head. Inside my fucking skin.”
He slithers over me, bracing his weight on either side of my head while his torso hovers above mine. His mouth is a furnace, scorching the skin of my neck, each word like a flame. “I want to know why she plays her games with me. Toys with me. Am I that much of a fucking animal to her?” Then he lifts a hand from the bed to grasp my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze when I try to turn away. “That much of a fucking fool…”
He lowers his face to my neck. Sharp pinching pain makes me gasp and flinch into the sheets. He bit me.
“I want her to answer me,” he growls into my skin. “I want her to fucking admit it. Come clean. You want to seduce me. None of it is fucking real—”
All I have to cling to are his own words. “It’s just sex.”
“No.” He rears back, hunched like a predator ready to pounce. “It stopped being sex when you said those fucking words to Nikolaus. It stopped being sex that night in the fucking hotel. From the moment I first touched you, it stopped being sex.” His hand slips between my legs, plunging beneath my thin nightgown.