Or the one in this bed. Lying here, I eye the ceiling, recalling the past seven years I’ve spent in this home as Willow and the playful Mouse. I used to pine for Havienna and its sturdy walls, but this place is my true home, even if I’ve only ever felt like a stranger. An outcast struggling to fit in where I don’t belong.
My spacious room holds so many more memories than the tiny, modest one I left behind. I picked out the wooden bedframe myself under Ellen’s direction. Eli and I used to take turns squeezing under this sturdy piece of furniture to hide during our games of hide and seek. Mischa himself helped me paint the walls a soft shade of beige to make the space my own.
There wasn’t a day I spent away at school when I didn’t wish I could be back in this very spot.
But now a shadow looms above me, casting a pall that even the bright colors of my room can’t overcome. It stretches across the ceiling, growing darker with every minute to pass by. Soon, I see a face lurking within the darkness, his eyes cold and watchful, eyeing me dismissively.
You are not Safiya…
“Willow?” A quiet knock on the door ushers in a slight figure who crosses my room with soft, cautious footsteps. I sense her approach my nightstand, and a dull thud alludes to her placing something there. The smell of food tickles my nose, though I don’t bother to lift my head and see the meal for myself. “Darling?”
The mattress barely dips beneath Ellen’s weight as she presumably sits beside me. Soft, her fingers run through my hair, parting the strands. At the back of my mind, I know the silence is cruel. I can’t imagine what she and Mischa might be thinking after the state I returned to them in.
I know it’s wrong to give them not even an ounce of reassurance.
And yet…
I can’t move.
“You need to eat,” she says gently. “I’ve brought your favorites. I even managed to get a hold of that jam you like. The one with the strawberries. Willow?”
She sits with me in silence for a while, continuously petting my hair before finally, with a sigh, she stands.
“I’ll just leave it here,” she says.
She’s barely left before a heavier set of footsteps advance toward my room, resonating determination. This visitor doesn’t knock, boldly opening my door and approaching my bed without waiting for an invitation. I can recognize him by the sound of his heavy breathing alone.
The mattress sinks beneath his weight, and I expect a loud, bellowing command to follow.
Anything but a sigh, deeper than Ellen’s.
A small commotion of tinkling silverware draws my notice. I don’t turn to see what he does, but a minute later, something appears before me, dangled inches from my nose. It’s square, beige, and slathered in a red, jelly-like substance.
“Take a bite,” Mischa urges tiredly. “Just one. You can give me that much.”
His tone tugs at some inner part of me I can’t resist.
“That’s it,” he praises as I raise my hand, accepting a piece of toast slathered with jam. I sample a pathetically small bite, barely registering the taste.
“Another while you’re at it,” he says, refusing to take the bread when I offer it back. “If I could bribe you to eat the whole damn thing, I would.”
Despite everything, a smile tugs on my mouth. I try to resist it, but Mischa’s thumb appears from above to softly brush my nose.
“A few dollars could get you to do anything,” he taunts. “God, help me the day I can no longer goad the girls with treats.”
And I remember. Money was the language to bond us. When I was younger, he used to slip me coins in exchange for chores or favors. If only a bribe were enough to change things now—but no amount of currency can erase the crushing pain lingering in my chest. Donatello’s return was just the final straw to compound a deeper question that’s haunted me for longer than I care to admit.
Mischa knows me only as Willow, his little Mouse.
But who is that woman, really?
“Look at me,” Mischa demands, his voice a shadow of its usual baritone.
I pull myself upright, registering the details I hadn’t before. It’s late in the day, my second being back. Or is it the third?
“That’s it,” Mischa murmurs as I finally turn to face him.
He props his thumb beneath my chin, lifting it.
I’ve never seen him look so…old. Wrinkles enhance the haggardness of his appearance. Bloodshot eyes reveal that he hasn’t slept, and dark blond stubble coats his chin, marking days without shaving.
But as he watches me swallow, some of the tension in his expression loosens. He sighs again.
“I think I will bribe you,” he says, drawing his hand away. “Whatever you want, it’s yours. Just eat for me.”
He lifts the tray Ellen left for me and settles it over my lap. I scan the items, desiring nothing. More bread, vegetable soup, and a ham sandwich carefully constructed with extra tomatoes and no crusts.
He watches me sample each item, and when I finish, he ruffles my hair. The shape of his mouth could be called a smile if it weren’t so tormented.
“I have tried never to coddled you,” he says, his voice gruff. “You deserve this honesty, even if it hurts.”
But he struggles to voice it, and full minutes pass before he finally cups my cheek, urging me to face him again.
Fathomlessly dark, his eyes scour mine, seeing into my skull without requiring the aid of any sign language. “Did he hurt you?” he demands. I sense the tension in his fingers that he struggled to keep from his voice. They shake. His throat twitches around a hard swallow.
For me, I sense. He’s tempering his anger, his rage, all for me.
I reach out, brushing my finger along the blond stubble on his jaw. It clenches against me, and he sighs in relief.
“He asked to meet with me,” he says. No name, but none is required. Only one man might make him glare so icily.
Donatello.
“If you don’t allow it, I won’t.” His expression makes me shiver despite his obvious restraint. A man like Mischa can only suppress his fury for so long before it seeps into his gaze, promising vengeance. “You say the word, and I will rain hell down on him. You say the word, and I will kill him. Do you understand me?”
I do. Much as I used to fantasize as a scorned little girl, Donatello Vanici’s life is in the palm of my hand.
All it would take is one frown. One nod. One nuanced reaction he could interpret as permission.
In pursuit of such a thing, he tilts my face against his palm, inspecting my expression. Whatever he sees in my face makes him nod and swipe his hand across his mouth as if he has to physically remove the fearsome scowl forming. Gradually, his lips flatten into a hard line, and he nods.
“Alright.” He smooths the hair from my face and reaches for a glass cup filled with water resting on the meal tray. “For you, I will show this restraint. Only for you. Now drink.”
He brings the cup to my mouth without giving me the chance to refuse. Dutifully, I down every last drop of liquid, and he ruffles my hair, cracking another faint smile. But then it fades, replaced by a more serious expression.
“Your mother wants me to convince you to let the doctor examine you.”
When I shake my head, he grabs my hand, bringing it to his chest.
“Please,” he says in a tone I’ve never heard from him. “Do this for me, please. If he hurt you… Let me protect you, Willow. Give me this one thing.”