Page 31 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)

From the corner of my eye, I notice emerald-green walls, and a lavish canopy shrouds me from above.

“Go ahead,” Mischa commands. “Get some rest. I’ll be here.”

“Oh?” A tired laugh trickles from my throat, much to my surprise. “To make sure I don’t run away?”

Of all the times to joke…

This one lands flat.

“Yes.” He scans my face, hunting for something. Searching. As my eyes drift shut, I hear him mutter, “Though maybe you shouldn’t have come back after all, Little Rose. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back…”

* * *

Iwake up, aware of nothing other than the fact that I’m alone—and the most selfish, pathetic thought crosses my mind before I can squash it.

I want it to have been a dream: Robert. Anna.

Everything.

I want to wake up to an infuriated Mischa glaring over me while Vanya lurks worriedly in the next room and Mouse skips down the hall.

Seeing Robert at all, and finding Anna-Natalia, could have been just some vivid nightmare…

But I feel it: a cold sense of dread congealing in my belly like a lead weight. Something vital has changed. Positions have been altered overnight and nothing will be as it was.

I try to evade the inevitable by lying beneath the blankets for as long as I can. They’re expensive quality, like the kind in Mischa’s manor. The glimpses I have of the room as I toss and turn reveal an elegant, yet comfortable space with dark-green wallpaper and hardwood floors.

My bed is massive, shielded by a heavy, embroidered canopy: silver vines sewn over a rich forest green. When I finally shrug the blankets off and sit upright, I spot a set of neatly folded clothing on a polished wooden dresser in the corner. Across from it, a heavy chair is positioned near a wide window overlooking an expansive view of tailored gardens.

“We will regroup at my property,” Sergei said what feels like an eternity ago. So this must be the place.

A world where Mischa Stepanov doesn’t hold sway.

He didn’t even keep his promise to watch over me. Straining my ears, I don’t hear him grumbling or shouting nearby, either.

Cautiously, I try to stand only to gasp as pain ripples through my spine. Everything, down to my toes, throbs at the slightest attempt to bear any weight. I’m covered in thin scratches as well, though I don’t need to look any farther than my torn, bleeding feet to know that I’ve pushed my body to its limits.

But the longer I stay in bed, the more that ominous dread in my gut grows. Limping to the dresser is the only way to push back that reality for as long as possible. The clothing I find is a pink dress with long sleeves. Courtesy of Mischa?

I picture him finding the garment he’d consider the most insulting. Robert’s precious wife bundled in pink after being pried from his grasping hands. How ironic would that be?

I can’t even look at the color without shuddering, so I set the garment aside and bite my pride back enough to open a drawer and snatch something new from it: another dress in a shade of blue.

Sergei keeps his home well stocked, it seems.

My search of the room thankfully turns up an en suite bathroom equipped with a tub large enough to submerge myself in completely. I run the water as hot as I can stand it and climb in. Washing Robert away a second time is a grueling, tenuous affair.

My battered limbs take ages to scrub clean. Once I’ve dried off and wrapped in a towel, I brush my teeth until my gums bleed. Then I use a bit of hand soap for good measure.

Dramatic in a sense. Or perhaps poetic?

He doesn’t own me anymore.

But who does? When I finally gather the nerve to creep from my room, I feel rudderless. A careening ship without a captain, barely able to avoid the rocks waiting to dash me to pieces.

And this new landscape seems to contain plenty of pitfalls to stumble upon.

Sergei’s home is a maze of ornate hallways, much like Mischa’s Pecavi—only this place feels older. Colder.

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