Page 128 of Marrying the Savage

Mine becomes formal in response because I was raised in a house where politeness often came armed. “Good morning.”

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then she steps inside. “May I?”

I gesture to the chair across from me. “Of course.”

She sits.

Marina quietly withdraws, because Marina is a genius and understands when a room is about to become uncomfortable.

The woman folds her hands in her lap.

I wait.

I have learned that silence makes people speak. My uncle taught me that, though he would probably be horrified to see me using any of his lessons without permission.

“I owe you an apology,” she says.

I was not expecting that.

I blink. “You do?”

“For yesterday. On the terrace. I was rude.”

“You were worried about your son.”

“I was.” Her gaze drops briefly to the ring on my finger, then returns to my face. “But that does not excuse it.”

I study her more carefully.

She’s still guarded. Not warm exactly. But the coldness from yesterday has thawed enough to show something human beneath.

“I’m sorry too,” I say. “I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“He likes to escape.”

“He has military aspirations.”

Her mouth softens. “Unfortunately.”

“I like him.”

“That was obvious.” She pauses. “He likes you too.”

“Excellent. I have secured the approval of the most reasonable Volodin.”

This time, she almost smiles.

Definitely related by marriage, then. Apparently nobody in this family believes in full smiles. They ration them like wartime sugar.

“I’m Irina,” she says. “Irina Volodina. Grigori’s wife.”

“Sofia,” I say, then glance at my own hand. “Also Volodina now, apparently. Against all early predictions.”

Irina’s eyes flicker.

Not amusement. Something more complicated.