Page 131 of Marrying the Savage

But Irina answers. “After Elena died, he became quieter. Colder. Before, he was still dangerous, of course. They all were. But there was more of him in the room.” She searches for the right words. “He laughed sometimes. Not often, but enough that people remembered it. Afterward, he built walls inside himself and then punished everyone for noticing them.”

That sounds like Damir. Too much like him.

I look down at my hands. At the Volodin ring tied to my finger. At the black thread. He gave me his father’s ring. He kissed my forehead after taking my virginity. He left before I woke. He ordered me to eat with a note, like emotional availability might kill him.

Maybe it would.

Maybe someone already died trying to get too close.

I feel awful. Not because I asked.

No, that’s a lie. Partly because I asked.

I wanted information. I pushed for it. I sent Anya digging. I questioned Grigori. I snooped in the study. I looked at Elena’s photograph like I had the right to inspect a dead woman’s face for evidence.

And now I have a piece of the story, and it feels less like power than theft.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

Irina’s expression softens. “You didn’t know.”

“No, but I wanted to.”

“That is different from cruelty.”

“Is it?”

“Sometimes.”

We sit in silence for a few moments. The sea moves beyond the windows. Then I remember something, and because I am me, my mouth opens before my better judgment catches it.

“Thank you, by the way.”

Irina looks confused. “For what?”

“The clothes.” I glance down at the gray dress. “Marina said some were available, and I assumed… I don’t know. That they were yours, maybe. Or someone sent for them. I couldn’t exactly bring my bridal trousseau with me while being carried out of a church by your husband’s cousin.”

Irina’s face changes.

Only a little. But enough.

My stomach drops before she speaks.

“They’re not mine,” she says.

I already know. The house has been telling me all morning, in little ways I didn’t want to understand.

“They belonged to Elena,” Irina says.

For one second, I can’t move. The gray wool against my skin becomes unbearably present. The collar at my throat. The sleeves at my wrists. The seams fitted too well because Marina must have adjusted something quickly or because our bodies are close enough in size to make the thought worse.

Elena’s dress.

Elena’s room, maybe.

Elena’s photograph.

Elena’s terrace.