Page 39 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)

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Mischa finds me in the dark. I sense him before his hand lands on my shoulder, painted silver by moonlight.

“You didn’t eat.” He tugs his grip, hauling me from the seat. “Come.”

I let him guide me down the hall, but I’m surprised when we pass the room I recognize as mine and enter another alarmingly close to it.

At a glance, I know it’s his. Only he would rebel against finery and comfort. He’s stripped the bed of its fancy sheets, and his clothing lies strewn over the floor. Out of everything, the most alarming detail is the tray of food left steaming on a table in the corner.

Apparently, he hijacked the delivery meant for me and brought it here.

“Eat,” he commands, nodding to the food. At the same time, he fishes something from his pocket and props a knee on the edge of the bed frame. With one hand, he balances the object over his thigh while manipulating a cloth in the other.

A few seconds pass before I realize what he’s doing: polishing his knife.

Turning my back to him, I approach the table. Up close, I discover that not only did he take my tray, but a second one lies beneath a discarded gray shirt. He’s barely touched the plump steak or vegetables on it.

I incline my head in his direction. “You didn’t eat, either?”

He looks up and shrugs. “Banquets are not my thing.”

Another glaring difference between him and Sergei. The older man seems to relish tradition, while Mischa…

Well, he prefers to stab what doesn’t suit his preferences.

Near the table is a lone chair that I drag closer and sit on. I eat slowly to the soundtrack of the methodical motion of Mischa’s polishing cloth.

Finally, the sound dies off.

“Sergei,” he says as I pick at the remnants of food. “What did the old man say to you now?”

My hand stills, dangling a fork above my half-eaten vegetables. “What makes you think he has?”

He laughs. “Because you look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost. That’s why.”

I hear the thud of his boots striking the floor as he approaches me slowly. He savors the way I tense with every inch gained.

“And because… I’m not sure I trust him.”

He lets the statement linger and I know he’s gauging my reaction.

“Do you?” he asks when I remain silent.

I jump as he places his hand beside my half-eaten plate. “I don’t know.”

For all intents and purposes, the man seems genuine. But so could Robert Winthorp when he wanted to.

In this twisted game of men and money, I’ve learned that no one can be accurately judged at face value. Except…maybe Vanya.

“He’s a cunning, sly old fox, Little Rose,” Mischa insists against my ear. His breath fans my skin, erasing a chill I hadn’t felt until now. “Maybe it’s a family trait. But you’ve never asked: Why can Vanya barely stand to be in the same room with him? In fact, why would the man pledge his loyalty tomeover his own brother? Think.”

“Why?” I ask on cue. “Though I suspect you’ll tell me anyway.”

He chuckles, but there’s a manic edge to the sound. This, I suspect, he’s been itching to tell me for a long time.

“Do you remember?” he wonders, leaning in so that his lips graze my shoulder. I suck in a breath and curl my hands beneath the table to disguise how they shake. “That stupid boy you think you saw all those years ago? The one who saved your life, believing that you were Briar Winthorp?”

“You,” I say hoarsely. “I saw you.”

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