Page 178 of Marrying the Savage

I pull him up again. Blood runs from his mouth and nose.

“I didn’t know,” he gasps.

“You said that already.”

“I swear, I didn’t touch⁠—”

I punch him again before he finishes the lie. His head snaps sideways, and he collapses to his knees. I step forward, catch him by the hair, and force his face up. His eyes are unfocused now. Blood drips onto his shirt. He’s trying to speak, but his mouth is too damaged to form anything useful.

I pull his arm down and twist until he cries out. “You put your hands on my wife,” I say.

“I was just talking to her.”

I hit him again. His lip splits open. Blood runs down his chin and onto his shirt.

Behind me, Mikhail says, “Damir.”

I ignore him.

The man swings at me once, weak and desperate. I step inside it, catch him by the back of the neck, and slam his face onto the bar. His knees buckle. I let him fall this time, and he lands on the floor, coughing and trying to crawl away.

I put my shoe on his hand.

He screams, and the sound finally makes Sofia move. Not toward me. Not away either. She flinches, just slightly, and then becomes very still again.

I look back at her. She’s standing beside Mikhail now, shoulders straight, face pale, one hand hovering near her throat before she forces it down. Her breathing is wrong. Controlled, but not calm. She’s trying to look unaffected, and because I know her, because I have spent three days watching the last footage of her fighting men in a service corridor, I can tell exactly how much effort it costs.

The man under my shoe makes a low sound. I look down at him. He sees my face and starts shaking.

“Take him out,” I say.

Two of my men step forward at once. Mikhail doesn’t argue. The men lift him under the arms and drag him toward the side exit. He is half-conscious, his feet dragging behind him, blood leaving small drops across Arman’s floor. One of Arman’s guards starts forward, but Arman, standing near the private hallway now, raises one hand and stops him.

A few seconds later, the side door opens and closes.

I don’t ask where they leave him. The street is good enough.

I turn back to Sofia. She watches me carefully, but her face gives little away now. Too little. Her throat is red, her hair is loose over one shoulder, and she’s wearing my coat like she put it on without thinking and then forgot to take it off.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing.” Her voice is still rough.

I look at her throat. Before I can have a good look at her, she turns to her side.

She lifts her chin. “He was being disgusting. That’s all.”

It’s a lie. Not all of it, maybe. But enough.

Any other time, I would push. I would make her say it. I would ask until the truth had nowhere left to hide.

Not here.

I step closer, but I don’t touch her. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Sofia.”