Page 7 of Marrying the Savage

Damir’s expression doesn’t change.

Dmitri picks up one of the sample invitations tucked into the folder, a heavy cream card with gold lettering and the kind of elegant calligraphy that makes captivity look expensive.

“Sofia and I are getting married,” he says. “Two weeks from today.”

My uncle remains still.

Damir looks at the invitation, then at Dmitri, and finally at me. “Congratulations,” he says.

It’s the coldest blessing I have ever heard.

Dmitri smiles. “Your sincerity is touching.”

“I doubt you would recognize sincerity without someone explaining it to you first.”

This time, I make the mistake of breathing at the wrong moment. A small sound escapes me, not quite a laugh but close enough that all three men look at me.

I reach for my water and take a sip, arranging my face into innocence. “Sorry,” I say. “Wrong pipe.”

Dmitri’s eyes promise a later argument. My uncle’s promise a lecture. Damir’s reveal nothing at all, which is somehow worse.

Dmitri turns back to him, clearly desperate to recover the upper hand. “You should come.”

My uncle’s head snaps toward him. “No.”

A flicker of satisfaction crosses Dmitri’s face, because wounded pride is a stupid animal and his has just found a stick to chase. “Why not?” he asks, looking at Damir now. “Perhaps he should see what real power looks like when the Antonovs and Sokolovs stand together.”

My uncle’s voice lowers. “Dmitri.”

But Dmitri is already too deep in his own performance to stop. “What do you say, Volodin? Shall we send you an invitation? You can sit at the back of the church and witness the alliance that ends you.”

The room seems to tighten around the words.

Damir looks at him for a long moment. Then he smiles. Barely. It’s not amusement. It’s not warmth. It’s the kind of expression a man gives a fool right before allowing him to finish ruining himself.

“Send one,” he says.

For once, Dmitri seems caught off guard. “What?”

“An invitation.”

My uncle steps in immediately. “No.”

Damir looks at him. “I was not asking you.”

The temperature at the table drops.

Dmitri laughs, but it comes out forced. “You want an invitation to my wedding?”

“No,” Damir says. “I want proof that you are stupid enough to invite me.”

I press my lips together so hard they almost hurt. My uncle’s gaze cuts toward me, which is deeply unfair because I have not said anything. Yet.

Dmitri’s face darkens. “You think this is funny?”

“Not yet.”

Damir puts his glove back on with the same unhurried care, each finger sliding into place. I hate that I notice it. I hate even more that my body notices it too, because the movement is controlled, almost intimate, and my imagination is apparently eager to become a traitor.