Page 10 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)

Chapter 4

We hunt for her long after the early morning stretches into the afternoon. If Mischa has more pressing business to attend to, he doesn’t let on. So intent on his lesson, he doesn’t seem to notice the passage of time.

Finally, he places his hand on my shoulder, motioning for me to stay back. Alone, he stalks to a nearby tree, barely making a sound over the brambles.

“There you are!” He lunges forward and reaches around the trunk. “Found you—”

His snatching fingers come up empty, however. He frowns at them, his eyebrows furrowing. Then, almost in comically slow motion, an acorn falls from a higher branch, hitting him squarely in the middle of his forehead.

He jerks back, looking up.

And at that exact moment, a grinning Mouse unfurls herself from a twisted thicket of branches.

Mischa’s expression ripples, eerily stern. Then he laughs and claps his hands. “Good! Very good.” Still clapping, he watches her climb down and then ruffles her hair. “Much better.”

Mouse grins. Very carefully, she opens one of her fists, revealing the flower tucked against her palm. If she were one to gloat, I can imagine what she might say.I win.

“Show-off.” Mischa’s upper lip twitches, resisting the smile that transforms his mouth regardless. “Now, come. We should get back before Ivan starts grumbling.”

Skipping ahead, Mouse leads the way through the trees, back to the house.

As predicted, Vanya greets us near the front door, his lips pursed. How long has he been watching us from afar? I can’t tell.

Neither can I decipher if he recalls our conversation from last night. His gaze flits over me before settling on the figure prancing nearby.

“You’re a mess,” he grumbles to Mouse, beckoning her inside. “Come on. I’ll get you something to eat, and then it’s back to bed.” To Mischa, he inclines his head respectfully. “The perimeter is still secure according to the men. Sergei wasn’t lying. But…” He cuts his gaze in my direction. Then he shrugs, deeming me worthy to hear his concerns. “I don’t like it. I say we move as soon as possible. It will be risky, but—”

“When haven’t I been up for a risk?” Mischa finishes for him. “Make the preparations. We can move out in the morning.”

“As you wish.” Nodding, Vanya reenters the house.

I start to follow, but Misha grabs my wrist before I can slip past him.

“Wait. It’s time for another game,” he says, his voice grated. “I’m not in the mood for flower picking, so consideryourselfthe prize.” He shoves me toward a section of forest. “So run.”

I stagger forward, maneuvering as quickly as I can over the uneven terrain. There’s no way I can outrun him. As my knees buckle, I haul myself behind the nearest tree and wait. Anticipation wracks my spine, heightening the hiss of every swaying branch and rustling leaf.

“Child’s play,” Mischa hisses, advancing at a lazy pace. He doesn’t even try to hide the sound of his footsteps, which crunch sticks and undergrowth with every step. “If you make it this easy, then what is the fucking point?”

A million familiar sensations curdle in my stomach.Caught. Trapped. Helpless. Hopeless.Sighing, I lean against the bark, impatient for the inevitable.

Almost as if my hiding place is mocking my cowardice, something falls from a branch and lands at my feet. Small. Round. An acorn. My eyes fixate on its brown surface as Mischa’s advice to Mouse replays in my head:Don’t panic. Think.

I can’t outsmart him for long—but he’s a wolf. Predators like him don’t expect their prey to fight back.

“Found you,” he hisses paces from my hiding spot. So smug in his capture, he doesn’t attempt to hide his attack; a shadow rushing toward me warns the second he reaches out.

So I pivot in the opposite direction.

“Where are you—” His back is to me now.

I’m the wolf, and my attack comes swiftly: I lunge. Before I can reach him, he twists around with feline grace. But he’s too late. Grunting, he’s forced to catch me by the waist, but he can’t defend from the palm I press against the center of his chest.

“Bang,” I tell him coldly, meeting his widening gaze. “You’re dead.”

I expect him to shove me off. Or, better yet, leave me here in an exhausted heap. I’m so tired of fighting him at every turn.

But rather than let me go, he grips me tighter, moving his face near mine until they touch. Cheek to cheek. We share the same twisted breath.

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