Page 58 of Marrying the Savage

The left side of his lip lifts slightly.

I point at him. “Don’t almost-smile at me. This is serious.”

“I am serious.”

“You are impossible.”

“You married me.”

“Under gunfire. My judgment was compromised.”

“Was it?”

My face heats. Because he’s looking at my neck now. At the bite. At the place his mouth marked me in a corridor while I held on to him like the world was ending, which, to be fair, it kind of was.

I clear my throat. “Also, I don’t even have a ring.”

The demand is ridiculous. We were married in a church; a ring is inconsequential. But I latch onto the thought because panic is making my brain search for any available exit.

Damir stills. Then he turns toward the dresser.

I immediately regret speaking. “What are you doing?” I ask.

He opens the top drawer, and my heart jumps.

Bluebeard. The word slams through my head before I can stop it.

The drawer is deep, old, dark wood lined with black velvet. For one terrible second, I imagine keys. Weapons. Photographs. A dead woman’s jewelry. Proof that my uncle was right and I have walked willingly into a house built around secrets and blood.

Damir reaches inside. I take one step back.

He notices. Of course he notices.

His eyes lift to mine. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sofia.”

The words should not comfort me, but they do anyway.

I hate that even more.

He removes something from the drawer.

Thread. Just thread. Dark, thick, almost black.

Then he takes off the ring from his own hand.

The family ring.

I’ve noticed it before because apparently noticing his hands has become a full-time occupation I didn’t apply for. It’s heavy and old, made of dark metal with the Volodin crest carved into the face. Not polished smooth like new jewelry. Worn. Carried. Survived.

He holds it for a moment, and something in his expression changes.

Barely, but I see it.

“This belonged to my father,” he says.

I stop moving.

He doesn’t look at me while he speaks. “Before him, my grandfather. It was pulled from the ruins after the fire.”