Page 71 of Marrying the Savage

My uncle’s voice comes back to me, low and certain. Do you know he killed his wife?

The words have been crawling through my head all night. They followed me into sleep, into waking, into the strange room with the sea outside and the giant ring on my finger. They follow me now, even as I drink coffee he somehow ordered correctly and wear a dress from his house that smells faintly of cedar and soap.

“My uncle said he killed her,” I say.

Anya inhales sharply.

“I don’t know if it’s true,” I add quickly. “I don’t know anything. That’s the problem. I have never heard this before.”

“I haven’t either,” she says. “And I’ve heard everything. Or at least enough to be extremely unwelcome at dinners.”

“Can you find out?”

“I can try, but Sofia, if this is old Volodin history, people will be careful.”

“Then ask someone who is both terrified and expensive.”

“That narrows it down to everyone we know.”

“Anya.”

“I’ll look.”

“Quietly.”

“Obviously.”

Anya sighs. “You are adapting disturbingly fast to being married to a crime lord.”

“I was raised by one.”

“Good point.”

A floorboard does not creak. There is no dramatic sound. No shadow falling beneath the door. No knock.

Still, I know.

The awareness comes first as a feeling at the back of my neck, then as warmth along my skin. My body recognizes him before my mind accepts it, which is both humiliating and inconvenient. I look toward the door.

It’s open.

Damir stands there. Black suit. White shirt. No tie. Bandaged hand at his side. Silver at his temples. That calm, unreadable face that makes every room feel like it has been forced to behave.

My heart stutters.

I have no idea how long he has been standing there.

Worse, I have no idea how much he heard.

Anya is still speaking in my ear. “Sofia? Are you there?”

I keep my eyes on Damir. “I have to go.”

“Is he there?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let him murder you before lunch.”