Page 223 of Marrying the Savage

But the anger keeps moving through me because I can still see Maksim’s flushed face against Damir’s chest, even though I only saw him from the window. I can still see Irina running behind them. I can still hear the lock turning on the music room door.

“You fed Damir lies about me,” I say.

Grigori smiles again, but it’s thinner now. “I fed your husband facts arranged properly. Men like Damir do the rest themselves when fear is involved. Everything fell into place the moment you decided to run away. Stupid, stupid girl. Made my job that much easier, though.”

My hand tightens over my stomach. “You poisoned him too,” I say.

Grigori’s brows draw together.

“Not with whatever you gave Maksim,” I continue, my voice shaking now but not breaking. “You poisoned Damir with doubt because you knew exactly where to put it.”

For a second, something like satisfaction crosses his face. “Yes,” he says. “And he swallowed it.”

That does it. Something in me becomes very still.

I stop retreating.

Grigori notices. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“No, not nothing. You just thought of something.”

I look at the floor near his left shoe. The runner in the hallway has shifted under the edge of the side table. There is a brass lamp on that table, heavy enough to hurt if it falls, but too far for me to grab before he reaches me. Behind me, Damir’s study door is closed, but not locked. To my right, the corridor bends toward the terrace. To my left, the wall has a mirror tall enough to show Grigori’s hand when he moves.

I look at his reflection, not at him. He’s standing closer than he thinks.

“I’ve made sure my plan is foolproof. If Damir even slightly suspects foul play, he’ll go straight for your uncle’s throat. Sergei has been after him for so long, you know? He tried to ambush him, tried to have you killed.”

“I’m sure Damir saw through all of that,” I say confidently. “Your flimsy lies aren’t going to hold up for much long.”

He scoffs.

I lift my eyes. “Do you know what your problem is?”

His mouth curves. “Enlighten me.”

“You think you’re so intelligent. You think you’ll get away with killing the Pakhan’s wife? You’re nothing but a pathetic little shit.”

His expression hardens. “Careful.”

“Why? Are you going to shoot me in the hallway and explain that too?”

He steps forward.

I grab the lamp and throw it. Not at him but at a mirror on the opposite side. Glass explodes across the corridor. Grigori flinches enough that his gun hand turns away for one second, and I run.

I don’t run toward the main stairs because he is still between me and them. I run down the side corridor, past the broken mirror, past the portraits, toward the terrace doors at the end. I hear him swear behind me. Then footsteps.

I reach the terrace door and yank it open, cold air hitting my face as I stumble outside. The terrace is wide, stone underfoot, with the drop beyond the balustrade and the side steps somewhere to the left. If I can get to them, I might reach the lower garden. If I reach the garden, someone might see me.

I don’t make it.

Grigori catches my arm from behind and drags me back so hard pain shoots through my shoulder. I twist, trying to wrench free, but he has one arm around my waist now, the other gripping the gun. I slam my elbow into his ribs. He grunts, loses hold for half a second, then grabs my hair and pulls.

Pain tears across my scalp, and I cry out despite myself.

“Enough,” he says through his teeth.