Page 138 of Marrying the Savage

“Comforting.”

I end the call before my voice can betray me.

For the rest of the day, I act like a petulant child. I don’t go down for lunch. When Marina brings a tray, I thank her, wait until she leaves, and don’t touch anything except the coffee.

By dinner, I’m in the study.

Not his study. A smaller one off the east hall with more windows, fewer maps, and a locked cabinet that looks deeply interesting. I sit in a leather chair by the fireplace with a book open in my lap and don’t read a single word.

I have chosen the room deliberately. It’s public enough that no one can accuse me of snooping. Private enough that Damir will know I am avoiding him. Near enough to the corridor that I can hear footsteps if he comes home.

Not that I’m listening. Obviously.

The book is in French. Something old and tragic and full of people making worse romantic decisions than mine, which is comforting until I remember most of them die.

At some point, the house changes.

It’s subtle. A shift in movement downstairs. The low sound of men greeting someone. A door closing. Footsteps with a weight I recognize before I can hate myself for recognizing it.

Damir is home.

My fingers tighten on the book.

I don’t look up when he enters. There is no knock. He fills the doorway in a black suit, one arm still bandaged under the sleeve, his face controlled, his gaze moving over the room once before settling on me.

I turn a page. Upside down, probably. I hope he doesn’t notice.

He notices. I can feel it.

“You didn’t come to lunch,” he says.

I look at the book. “Astute.”

“Or dinner.”

“Your powers grow.”

He steps into the room. “Are you ignoring me?”

“Yes.”

At least that surprises him for half a second.

“Efficient,” he murmurs.

“I believe in clarity.”

“What are you reading?”

“No idea.”

His gaze drops to the book. “It’s upside down.”

Damn it.

I close it calmly and set it on my lap. “French literature is very flexible.”

“Sofia.”