Page 212 of Marrying the Savage

The word stops me.

Father. I’m not ready for it, but it’s already true if the doctor is right.

I look toward the closed study door. “She is not to be touched,” I say.

No one answers quickly enough.

I look back at them. “By anyone.”

Mikhail nods first. “Understood.”

“She is not to be questioned without me.”

Another nod.

I leave the study before anyone else can speak. The corridor outside feels too narrow. I walk toward the music room, but I stop before I reach the door.

Through the open gap, I can see Sofia sitting at the piano, one hand on the keys, the other resting over her stomach. She’s not playing now. She’s looking down at her hand like she is speaking to someone only she can hear.

Our child.

The evidence in the study follows me.

Sofia lifts her head slightly, as if she senses me near the door.

I step back before she sees me, and lock the door behind me.

33

SOFIA

The key turns in the lock.

I lift my head from the piano.

For a second, I think it’s Damir. The door opens, and Marina steps inside with a tray in her hands. She pauses when she sees me sitting there, one hand still resting on the keys, the other pressed flat over my stomach.

“Thank God you’re here,” I say, standing too quickly. “Someone locked the door.”

Marina looks at the door. Then at me. Then down at the tray. “Good afternoon, madame.”

I stop halfway across the room.

Madame. The word hits harder than it should.

“What did you call me?”

She walks to the small table near the window and sets the tray down. Her movements are careful. Too careful. The spoon is placed beside the bowl, the napkin folded once, the cup turned so the handle faces me. She doesn’t look up. “Mr. Volodin asked that you eat.”

“Marina.”

“Your lunch is still warm.”

“Why was the door locked?”

“I don’t know, madame.”

I walk closer. She reaches for the teapot, but her hand slips slightly on the handle. Porcelain clicks against porcelain.