Page 181 of Marrying the Savage

Anya looks at me. “She calls, you let her talk.”

I hold her gaze. “Yes.”

She clearly didn’t expect that. Neither did Sofia.

Arman says, “I can arrange a car.”

“No.”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Our conversation is not finished,” I tell him.

“I assumed.”

I turn toward Sofia. She starts walking before I can offer my hand. Her steps are controlled, but I see the slight delay in them. She is tired. More than tired. She is holding herself together in public because pride is the last weapon she has in her hand.

I walk beside her, close enough to catch her if she stumbles, not close enough to make her pull away. The club parts around us. No one speaks.

Outside, the air is cold. My cars wait at the curb. My men are already positioned along the street. The man from the club is not visible anymore, but there is blood near the mouth of the alley and a dent in the side of a parked car.

Sofia sees the blood. Her mouth tightens, but she says nothing.

I open the rear door for her. She pauses. For one second, I think she may refuse.

Then she gets in. I sit beside her, and the door closes.

The car stays still while Nikolai confirms the route. Mikhail gets into the front passenger seat. The driver waits for my order.

Sofia looks out the window. “You’re not going to interrogate me?”

“Not in this car.”

Her eyes search mine, trying to find the trap.

There is no trap. Not tonight.

“I’m angry,” I say.

“I know.”

“I am also relieved.”

She looks away quickly. I let her.

“For three days,” I continue, “I didn’t know if you were alive.”

Her hands tighten in her lap. “I was alive.”

“Yes. Now I can see that.”

Sofia ignores me. She turns her face toward the window as the car pulls away from the club, her shoulders stiff beneath my coat, her hands folded tightly in her lap as if she can hold herself together by force. The streetlights move over her face in pale flashes, showing the red marks at her throat, the tired set of her mouth, the way she keeps swallowing as if something is still caught there.

I ask nothing. For almost a full minute, I manage it.

Then she shifts slightly, and the collar of my coat slips down her shoulder, exposing more of her throat. The marks are clearer now. Not enough to bruise badly, maybe, but enough to show the shape of another man’s arm, another man’s hand, another man’s attempt to control her breathing.

My hand closes around the edge of the seat. “Sofia.”