Page 132 of Marrying the Savage

Elena’s husband.

My coffee sits untouched in front of me.

I think of last night. The ivory silk. Damir’s eyes when he first saw me in the doorway. That brief, unreadable stillness I had thought was desire, or control, or some strange combination of both.

He recognized the dress. He knew. He said nothing.

Heat rises to my face, but it’s not desire this time.

It’s embarrassment.

No. Worse.

Something like shame.

I’m wearing a dead woman’s clothes in her husband’s house, sleeping in his bed, asking questions about her death over breakfast like curiosity makes me less monstrous than everyone else here.

“I didn’t know,” I say. The words come out thin.

Irina reaches across the table, then stops before touching my hand. “Of course you didn’t.”

I close my eyes briefly.

Of course he knew. And he still touched me last night. Still took the dress off me.

Still looked at me like⁠—

No.

I don’t know how he looked at me. That’s the problem.

I know how his mouth feels. I know the weight of his body, the sound he makes when control slips, the way his hand closes around mine before pain can show on his face. I know he likes coffee black and notices everything and turns jokes into household orders.

But I don’t know what lives behind the locked doors.

Maybe Elena does.

Did.

My stomach turns. I push the plate away.

Irina watches me with quiet understanding that somehow makes it worse.

“I should change,” I say.

“You can,” she says softly. “But Sofia?”

I look at her.

“Elena is gone.”

The words are gentle. They don’t comfort me.

I look down at the dress again, at the ring tied to my hand, at all the things in this house that belonged to someone else before they were placed on me.

“I know,” I say.

But I don’t feel like I know anything.