Page 60 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)

Chapter 20

Mischa seems to think I hate Robert—enough to want him dead—but I’m not sure if that’s the case. Can you hate someone who merely exploited a willing victim?

Everything he did was never forced—even the supposed death of our child.

I just never questioned. Like a good doll, I merely accepted every explanation he deigned to toss my way.

You can’t blame a wolf for devouring a doe.

But you can blame a monster cunning enough to deceive his prey. One who enjoys watching his victims squirm in anguish. After all, the wolf only seeks to sate a primal urge, but the monster?

He desires control above all else. Power.

And, for whatever reason, the only man to come to mind in that context is Sergei.

He finally makes his reappearance as Mischa and I return to the manor as the first hints of darkness creep along the horizon.

“I need to speak with you,” he says, meeting us at the edge of the gardens. Though he speaks to us both, his eyes remain fixated on me. “In private, if you please.”

“Why?” Mischa demands. He steps forward, effortlessly inserting himself in between us. “Is there something you can’t say in my presence, Sergei?”

“No,” the man says calmly. “But I am sure there are some things that Ellen would not like discussed. Even in front of you.” He turns and beckons me with a nod. “I’ll be in the drawing room off the foyer.”

Mischa starts after him, but I place a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll be fine.”

When I enter the manor without him, I can sense his ever-present hesitation. Once again, his paranoia will fester. Can he truly trust me?

I can’t bring myself to look back and gauge which emotion wins out.

Instead, I force my shoulders back and navigate my way to Sergei alone. Sure enough, I find him in a large room lined with bookshelves. He’s standing near a row of windows, glaring out at the dimming sky. It’s easy to see the resemblance between him and Vanya now; they share the same contemplative, brown eyes and stern expression. But where Vanya radiates an exhausted neutrality, Sergei is always alert. Always watching.

“That was a remarkable performance the other night,” he praises, but I suspect that the compliment is more grudging than genuine. “You reminded me so much of—”

“Marnie?” I interject. My arms go around my chest. It’s instinct. A subconscious guarding against the cold shift in his posture. He’s standing taller, angled away from me.

It’s like he knows the topic on my mind before I even voice it.

“Why didn’t you tell me that she wasn’t taken? Shewillinglyleft the Winthorps.”

“Ivan told you that?” he scoffs dismissively. “Always the romantic—”

“So then what is the truth?” I’m too tired to disguise the pain in my voice. “Just tell me.”

“Fine.” He faces me, crossing his arms as well. “You deserve to hear it. Your mother wasn’t the naïve innocent that rumor and legend have turned her into. She was a cunning, intelligent, and—I’ll say it—ruthless young woman. The elder Winthorp forced her into marriage—did she tell you that?”

I lick my lips, unsure of just how much I should reveal. I’m on a different playing field than the battles I’ve fought with Mischa. There are no petty tricks or scathing insults to dodge. Sergei reminds me of a tactician, already twenty steps ahead, one wrong move from instant checkmate.

“She didn’t tell me much about her family,” I admit.

In reality, she told me nothing.

“Oh?” A satisfied gleam flits across his gaze, but the instant I place it, it’s already gone. “Do you know that the Winthorps liked to dip into the sex trade? Your mother was one of those unfortunate girls, plucked from obscurity, destined to be sold to some rich, old baron. Unfortunately, Robert Winthorp took a liking to her first. She was undeniably beautiful…” He trails off as if staring into the past, seeing her, this lovely, doomed creature. “But she was far smarter than the bastard gave her credit for. She tricked him into believing she loved him despite the circumstances of their meeting. So he married her. Worshipped the ground she walked on, and gradually, she convinced him to grant her more and more freedom until she could enter and leave the manor as she pleased.”

In some ways, the woman he’s described sounds more like Briar than Marnie: cunning to her own advantage.

“So why did she come to you?”

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