Page 69 of Marrying the Savage

A tiny flicker touches her mouth. There. Human.

“What should I call you?” she asks.

“Sofia.”

“I’m not sure Mr. Volodin would approve.”

“Mr. Volodin and I are going to have a long and terrible life together if he thinks I answer to madam.”

This time, she actually looks amused, though she hides it quickly by arranging the cream pot half an inch to the left. “My name is Marina,” she says.

“Thank God. A name. I was beginning to think everyone in this house came labeled by function.”

“Not everyone.”

“Just the terrifying men downstairs?”

“Mostly.”

I like her immediately.

This is dangerous because liking people in a cliffside murder castle feels like the first step toward making poor decisions. Then again, I married Damir Volodin yesterday after inviting him to my wedding as an act of spite, so perhaps the poor decisions train has already left the station and crashed into several villages.

“I hope you like your coffee,” she says. “I made it just the way your husband wanted.”

My husband. What an odd thought.

Marina leaves after telling me breakfast is ready downstairs whenever I am dressed.

I consider eating in my room out of pure defiance. Then I taste the coffee, and I pause. It’s strong, hot, dark, and bitter in exactly the right way. There is cream on the side and no sugar.

I take another sip.

Damn him. He knew exactly what I needed without even asking about it.

I sit at the small table by the window, wearing a borrowed dark green dress that Marina brought from somewhere in the house. It fits better than I expected, which is alarming for reasons I’m choosing not to examine before caffeine. My hair is loose around my shoulders because I have not had the strength to do anything with it, and the massive Volodin ring is still tied to my finger with black thread.

I tried to ignore it when I woke up.

Impossible. It’s heavy enough to have opinions.

Every time I lift my cup, the ring shifts slightly, dark and enormous against my hand, the family crest catching the morning light. It looks ridiculous. It also looks like a warning, a promise, and a small piece of history I have no business wearing.

I should remove it.

I don’t.

Instead, I pick up the phone and call Anya.

She answers on the first ring. “Sofia?”

The sound of her voice nearly undoes me.

I grip the phone harder. “Hi.”

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “Oh my God. You’re alive.”

“For now.”