“What are you talking about?”
He extends the page to me. Printed on it is a brief list of medical terms. The blood test results.
As expected, there’s no familial relation. Though I doubt that revelation is responsible for Fabio’s disgusted glance.
“Mischa hasn’t seen it yet, I’ll have you know,” he says tiredly. “This time, you can face him alone. I’m done trying to clean up your messes. Frankly, I… I can’t even look at you.”
“What am I supposed to be reading?” I demand.
Then I realize that one line is highlighted. HCG: abnormal. That term…
“I peed on a stick,” Liv told me, her eyes sparkling. “It was positive, but the doctor still did a blood test to check my HCG levels. They’re elevated, Don…’
“Don’t be stupid, Donatello,” Fabio snaps, pulling me back to the present. “It’s early, but a blood test would detect something. I’m sure even you knew that.”
He waits.
Then he sighs.
“Willow is pregnant. Congratulations.”
~ The Mice and Men Series continues in Mended Crown ~
Afterword
You have finished book one of Donatello and Willow’s story. Do you want to see where it all began? Check out the War of Roses Trilogy!
XV: Fifteen: War of Roses Trilogy Book One
Kidnapped, Ellen must do whatever it takes to survive her cruel mafia captor, Mischa. Will he break her— or will she outsmart him?
WHEN HATE BECOMES OBSESSION…
Mistaken for her beautiful half-sister, Ellen Winthorp is taken captive by a madman who declares that she will be his "fifteen": the fifteenth victim of a vicious mafia blood feud. Armed with only her instincts, Ellen must resist her captor for as long as she can—which is easier said than done the more she's exposed to the complex man beneath the beast.
Because Mischa Stepanov isn’t a mindless monster—he’s a wolf, and she’s the unwitting doe caught in his midst.
Unraveling the torment of his past may be her only hope of salvation...
Or the secrets uncovered may destroy them both.
Chapter 1 of XV: War of Roses Trilogy Book 1
Noise…
Chaos…
Briar…
The first thing I’m aware of is that I’m blindfolded—a fact that could be a blessing in disguise as my thoughts blur and jumble together. Only one coherent question escapes the fray: Where am I?
No answer comes to me immediately. My straining ears can make out only a few words muttered nearby in unfamiliar voices. Deep, masculine voices.
Various smells irritate my nostrils as well: sweat, body odor, male. All male. God, where am I?
I try flexing my shoulders only to wince. My hands are impossible to move, tied behind my back with something rough. Rope?
Oh, God.
Familiar terror gnaws at my belly as moisture gathers in my armpits and sweeps across my palms. At least, now, I have an inkling of my fate. I’m trapped in another one of his games. My nostrils flare with renewed purpose: seeking out his scent.
He must have hired lackeys this time; foreign body odor drowns out the stench of his cologne. I can’t smell him.
But you can survive this. I fall back on the mantra that has gotten me through every day for sixteen years. You can survive, Ellen. Focus, Ellen. Breathe, Ellen.
Ten hours—that’s how long I endured last time. My resolve had nearly splintered by the end. I’d almost given in. Almost.
But even psychological wounds eventually heal and leave tougher scar tissue behind. I can last another ten hours with Robert. My brain makes that distinction as the barrage of scents dissipates, revealing one that overpowers the rest: a man’s. I taste the nuances in his stench rather than smell them—he’s that potent, composed of a multitude of different things.
Cigar smoke.
Vodka.
One scent in particular makes my heart stop. Salty and sweet, it’s almost as familiar as the flowery perfume wafting from my skin now. Blood?
Robert never smokes. He doesn’t drink. Whenever he hurts me, he always washes his hands before and after. It is our routine, and he is nothing if not predictable.
No. This is someone new. Someone taller, whose shadow completely blots out what little detail plays across my blindfold. His footsteps are steady. Heavy.
“This her?”
I sense the outline of his fingers before the callused edge of one grazes my forehead.
“You made sure?”
His voice is deep. Almost too deep to be intelligible: a series of grated, rumbling notes. There’s an accent tucked among them—something thick. Eastern European? Briar had a maid from there once. Sonja.
Sonja liked to read Jane Eyre. She liked scribbling love notes to Robert Sr.’s men before fucking them in the broom closet late at night when she thought no one was looking. Sonja liked a lot of things before Robert took a liking to her.
But another figure from my memory possessed this accent as well. Even though his words were hissed in a whisper, I still remember. Breathe!
“Bring her.”
Those two words snap me back to the present. Unfamiliar hands grab my shoulders, cinching the soft silk of my blouse. Briar’s blouse. She dressed me in it lovingly, remarking on how the color complemented my eyes. Our eyes, the same shade of light blue.
“Move!”
A tug on my shoulders hauls me upright and unseen hands shove me forward. Every sound echoes. Four footsteps, including mine. The biggest man takes the lead, I suspect, his gait rhythmic against creaking floorboards.
In contrast, the men holding me dig their nails into my skin and scurry toward an unknown destination. A rusty squeal seconds later conjures the image of an old door opening, and the footsteps trail off.
“Move!”
Something rams into my side and I stagger for balance until my cheek strikes a hard surface. It’s warm. Human.
“Get her on the bed.”
Those harsh hands return to my shoulders to fulfill the command.
“Sit her on the edge…like that. Cut her hands free.”
A metallic hiss sends a shiver down my spine—then pain! Fire courses through my fingertips as circulation returns to them. I long to flex each one, but I
