Page 13 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)

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Agroan escapes my lips as I open my eyes to the dim glow of dawn filtering in through the room’s only window. Already, I thoroughly regret my decision to forsake the bed. My legs throb when I attempt to stand, and I have to ease myself upright, using the wall like a makeshift ladder.

Sighing, I eye my filthy clothing and make a halfhearted trip around the room in search of anything else to wear.

So much for the new Ellen. Gone are my handpicked clothes, lost in the flames that consumed Mischa’s manor.

Unsurprisingly, I find nothing here, which leaves only one other course of action to feel somewhat cleaner.

I steel myself as I approach the door and palm the knob. When I finally gather the nerve to push it open, I don’t find any madmen lurking beyond it.

But I do discover a bathroom not far from my hideaway. It’s small but contains a tub at least. Despite a circle of rust around the drain, the plumbing seems to be in working order.

After stripping my clothing, I climb inside and run the water as hot as I can stand it. Then I huddle in the center of the basin and struggle to find some semblance of peace. It’s surprisingly easy. As the heat sinks into my limbs and licks away the grime on my skin, I rest my head against the rim of the tub and close my eyes.

A sudden thud cuts my reprieve short. The door opens, slamming against the wall, and the source of my unease enters.

I lurch upright, shielding my breasts with trembling hands. “What are you doing?”

Mischa scoffs, eyeing my body as boldly as if he owns every inch. “Don’t tell me a haughty woman of your esteem plans to wear the same dirty clothing.” He extends his hand, revealing a wad of material I didn’t notice before. Fabric? He unfolds it for my inspection: a thick, gray shirt like the kind Mouse wore the other day.

But I doubt it will fit me as well as it fit her.

“Don’t stick your nose up just yet,” Mischa warns. Up until now, he was obscuring another garment behind his back: a pair of black pants. “I took these from the smallest man in my crew, but I doubt they’ll fit you well enough. You’ll just have to make do.”

He tosses both garments onto the floor near the tub.

“Thank you,” I croak, surprised despite myself. It’s like he read my mind. Though maybe he can? He scans my features as easily as one would an open book.

“Thank me? For ensuring that youdon’tget the idea to walk around naked and tempt my men into doing your bidding?”

I scoff and turn my attention to my limbs. Steam rises from the basin of the tub as my legs redden in the heat.

“Doesn’t it exhaust you?” I wonder. “Being so damn paranoid?”

A sound escapes his throat, but I can’t decipher it. A laugh?

“Paranoid? I call it prudent.” He turns from me and lifts his shirt over his head, tossing it to his feet.

My eyes scan his body appreciatively before I can help it. His tattoos gleam, melding with his healing scrapes and wounds. The man is a canvas of darkness and blood. If I believed in demons, I’d wholeheartedly insist he was one. Sin in the flesh.

“See something you like?” he wonders.

Licking my lips, I croak, “What are you doing?”

“Are you the only one allowed to be clean?” He braces his hands over the rusty sink and leans in toward the mirror, observing his reflection. Whatever he finds makes him turn away and fish a rag from beneath the sink. After sniffing it, he shrugs. Apparently, it’s clean enough.

He wets it beneath the faucet and swipes at his face.

Watching him, I find that the only way to regain my composure is by utilizing the one weapon proven effective against him.

Speaking.

“You seem pretty calm,” I remark as I stretch out my sore legs. “For a man whose home just burned to the ground.”

He stiffens, and in the mirror, I catch his fleeting scowl.

“I’ve had many homes,” he says simply. Setting the rag aside, he wets his fingers and rakes them through his tangled hair. “Unlike you and your Winthorps, I don’t get attached to a pretty dwelling.”

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