Page 54 of Marrying the Savage

“Twenty-one years ago.”

He doesn’t look at me. His eyes remain on the portraits. “My father. My mother. Two sisters. My youngest brother. Three cousins who were staying with us that night.” He pauses. “Almost everyone.”

The foyer feels colder.

I look at the painted faces again.

Children. A woman with pearls. A young man who might have laughed once, before grief carved him into the man beside me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. The words feel too small.

They always do.

Damir’s gaze shifts to me. “Don’t be. You didn’t light the match.”

My stomach tightens.

There’s more in that sentence. A lot more.

“Who did?” I ask.

His eyes hold mine. Then he looks away. “That depends who tells the story.”

My uncle’s warning returns again.

He killed his wife.

Damir begins walking again, and this time I follow more quietly.

“After that,” he says, “there was little left. The house. Some money. Enemies waiting to see whether a burned family could still bite.” His voice remains calm, but the calm itself feels like scar tissue. “I rebuilt from ashes because there was no one else to do it.”

I believe him. And that frightens me more than if I didn’t.

At the end of the hall, a set of double doors opens before we reach it, and two men step out. They are not guards. At least, not only guards.

The first is tall and broad, with sandy-brown hair, a crooked nose, and the relaxed posture of a man who has probably broken bones and considered it exercise. The second is leaner, dark-haired, with sharp eyes and a mouth that looks like it knows too many jokes and tells too few of them.

Both look at me. Then at Damir. Then at my dress.

The sandy-haired one grins. “Well,” he says. “You brought a wife home.”

Damir’s expression doesn’t change. “Careful, Grigori.”

The man’s grin widens. “I said wife. Very respectful.”

The darker one sighs. “You said it like you were announcing a stray cat.”

I blink.

Damir gestures with mild impatience. “My cousins. Grigori Volodin and Kirill Volodin.”

Grigori gives me a small bow that is almost polite until the grin ruins it. “Welcome to the family, Sofia.”

Kirill inclines his head. “Ignore him. Everyone tries.”

“I’m standing right here,” Grigori says.

“Yes,” Kirill replies. “That’s usually the problem.”