Page 18 of Ruthless King
He’s right. She and Eli reside in the most secluded wing of the manor for a reason. Even during the years I lived here, I could count the interactions I’ve had with her alone on one hand, and rarely does she join events that aren’t restricted to the family. After the death of her father, Ivan, two years ago, she’s been even more reclusive.
I’ve heard Mischa and Ellen mention snippets of her past in hushed whispers; that she had been held captive for years by a rival family.
I’ve known her to be nothing but kind; however, it’s obvious that Eli is her sole devotion. Anyone might think she was his biological mother. Once, a few years ago, I’d gathered up the nerve to ask him:if Ellen is your mother, why do you call her “Aunt?”
His answer, as always, portrayed a logic well beyond his young years. “Aunt Ellen doesn’t need me as much,” he said wistfully. “My mama does.”
I didn’t know what he meant then. Ellen needed him—anyone with eyes could see that. A lesser woman would have shunned Anna from his life, doing her best to assert herself in her natural role. But as selfless as she is, Ellen knew what he wanted, and was brave enough to make that sacrifice for him.
From Eli’s perspective, the reasoning was more childish and, in some ways, tragic. Ellen had more than enough children with Mischa. Anna? She had none. In his analytical brain, that wasn’t fair, so he rectified it as only a child could.
“Will?” He grabs my hand, his gaze more piercing than ever. “You zoned out again. Maybe you are tired? Playing music all day would make me want to sleep too.” He smiles in that impish way his younger siblings have yet to master.
I roll my eyes and sign,We can’t all be soldiers like you.
It’s a strange thing for a boy to aspire to be—especially one with so much wealth and opportunity at his disposal. On the other hand, it’s an obvious outcome to anyone who knows him. While he loves Anna and Ellen, he worships Mischa, a man who sneers at anything not involving fighting tactics or knives. Or at least he used to. It’s strange what children can do to men like him. With Ivan, another dutiful mini-soldier, he was gentle but still stern.
But when Aljona was born, he barely raised his voice in her presence. And when Marnie came? He had the various displays of weapons hanging in his office quietly replaced with paintings.
It wasn’t as if the girls made him softer, oh no.
Mischa guards his family jealously. The bigger it grows, the tighter his grip becomes on the world around us. God help the poor men who fall for Jona or Marnie.
Or me.
“I’m going to find the others,” Eli declares, apparently bored with our reunion already. “Go get some sleep.”
I watch him skip off, and a part of me throbs in a subtle, aching way. I miss the days when I could have raced off with him and wrestled in the dirt with the others. Our gap in ages never really mattered, until one day it did.
And it became more apparent than ever what an anomaly I am in this family. Like an off-note in an otherwise flawless aria. You don’t notice it at first—perhaps one might assume it’s part of the song. But the more you play the piece, the more pronounced that one note sounds.
Until it’s all you can hear, grating above the rest.
Destroying the otherwise harmony.
5
WILLOW
Ican’t sleep for long. Restless, I start to wander the halls, scanning the shadows that drape the hallways and the occasional painting I pass. Judging from the quiet, everyone else is already asleep this time of night, leaving the manor an eerie shell of its daytime chaos. It feels so strange to be alone in the heart of such a bustling hive of activity.
Until suddenly, I’m not. A figure appears near the top of the grand staircase, his silhouette recognizable even in the dark. With a nod of his chin, he beckons me closer. “Mouse,” he says, his old childhood nickname for me, given my obvious silence. “Come.”
He descends the steps, leaving me to follow him into his study.
“I’ve had to learn pretty damn quick how to read your expressions,” he declares, observing me from behind his desk. I doubt he’s even gone to bed yet, considering he’s still wearing his clothing from earlier. Sharp with intensity, his dark eyes scan my face. “You’re thinking about something, and I doubt it has anything to do with a party,” he gruffly surmises. “You and I never mince words, so tell me what’s on your mind.”
He’s right, but I don’t even know how to broach this topic. What to say. That I’ve been thinking too much of the past? Wanting answers I shouldn’t pursue.
“I know that look,” Mischa grumbles, apparently more perceptive than I’ve given him credit for. “You have the same look about you that Eli did when he asked me what happened to the bastard who sired him. It’s only understandable; you’re thinking about the past.”
I swallow hard, caught off guard by the admission. Eli never once mentioned his biological father, at least not to me. Mischa has always been “Papa” in his world. As far as I know, his real father had been a monster who separated him from his own mother at birth.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told him,” Mischa says gruffly. “I’ll answer whatever questions you have, but I will not coddle you, and nothing I may say will ever change my love for you.” His eyes shine in the dim glow cast by a sole lamp, and I feel a painful mixture of hope and dread crawl up my throat.
With a wave of his hand, he indicates the leather chair before his desk while he claims the one across from it.
“What is it you want to know?” he asks, folding his hands before him as I sit.
