Page 164 of Marrying the Savage

“I want out,” I say.

“Then get in.”

I get in.

Arman slides in beside me, and the door closes. The car starts moving before I have my seat belt on. I twist to look through the back window as the loading bay drops behind us, but all I see is concrete, a flash of the building, and then the turn of the street cutting the gallery from view.

For a moment, none of us speaks. My hair is a mess. My wrist aches where someone grabbed me. My mouth tastes like leather from the glove, which is disgusting, and I can still hear the fight in my head.

Then Arman says, “I apologize for the dramatics.”

I slowly turn to him. “Thanks,” I say drily.

Arman’s mouth twitches again. “For what it’s worth, Rafi has been kicked by worse people.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere private.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I’m giving while we are in a moving car.”

“I don’t know you.”

“No.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

That makes me pause.

Arman leans back, watching me with that amused but careful expression. “Trust is expensive, Sofia. Right now, you have Anya’s word and my car. That is all I can offer before we speak properly.”

I look out the window. The city moves past in flashes: glass buildings, dark cars, winter trees, people walking with shopping bags as if the world has not just tilted sideways around me.

My phone buzzes. I flinch, then dig it out of my coat pocket.

No. Not my coat.

Damir’s jacket. I’m still wearing his jacket.

The thought hits so hard that I look down at myself as if seeing the black wool for the first time. His scent is still trapped in it, leather and smoke and cold air, and suddenly the car feels smaller.

The phone buzzes again. Anya.

I answer immediately.

“Are you with him?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

Arman leans slightly toward the phone. “She is safe.”

“Arman?” Anya says.