Page 152 of Marrying the Savage

I wanted space. That was the original plan. Space to think, to breathe, to figure out whether I’m a prisoner, a wife, a pawn, or all three wearing an expensive coat. Space to understand why my uncle fears Damir, why everyone goes quiet at Elena’s name, why Damir looks at me like he wants to devour me and protect me and ruin me and keep me alive all at once.

Instead, I’m trapped in a house with a man whose hands know me too well and whose silence knows exactly where to hurt.

My thighs still ache from him.

That is not helpful.

I stand again because sitting makes me think, and thinking leads to memories, and memories lead to heat, and heat leads to regrettable softness. I’m not available for softness. I have a plan to fix.

Damir thinks shopping is safe because he controls the place.

Fine. Then I need something he doesn’t control.

Someone.

My eyes go to my phone.

I stare at it. Then I pick it up.

This is a terrible idea. Which, historically, does not stop me.

Dmitri Sokolov has been messaging me since the wedding. I muted him without opening the chat because I have self-respect and because several of his messages arrived as voice notes, which feels like violence before you even press play.

But Dmitri is predictable. Dmitri is vain. Dmitri is wounded, humiliated, and stupid enough to react if he thinks there’s an opportunity to reclaim pride in public.

My thumb hovers over Snapchat.

“This is insane,” I whisper.

Then I open the app. I take a picture of the corner of the room, carefully angled so it shows nothing useful except my hand holding a coffee cup and a sliver of the window. The Volodin ring is visible on my finger, tied with black thread.

Finally!! Shopping day at the Cox. Pray for the Salesman.

I post it to my private story. Then I wait.

My heart starts doing something unpleasant behind my ribs.

Seconds pass.

A minute.

Two.

I refresh the viewer list.

Anya sees it first. Naturally.

A message appears immediately: What the hell is this.

I ignore it.

Three more people see it.

A cousin. A girl from boarding school who once cried because a waiter brought her sparkling water instead of still. Someone named Lera whom I don’t remember but apparently trust with my bad decisions.

Then—

Dmitri Sokolov.