Page 72 of Marrying the Savage

“I’ll put it on my schedule.”

“Sofia—”

I cut the call. Then I place the phone on the table with exaggerated care, because if I do anything too quickly, I may reveal that my pulse has decided to start sprinting.

Damir’s gaze moves from the phone to my face.

Then to my left hand. The ring.

Still there.

“Good morning,” he says.

I stare at him. “Absolutely not.”

His brow lifts slightly. “No?”

“No. You don’t get to stand in doorways like a gothic tax collector and wish me good morning after yesterday.”

“I didn’t know gothic tax collectors were a category.”

“They are now. You are their king.”

His mouth threatens that almost-smile again. Infuriating man.

“You slept?” he asks.

“No.”

“You ate?”

“No.”

“You drank coffee.”

“Yes. I’m not a barbarian.”

“The coffee was acceptable?”

I narrow my eyes. “Did you come here to check on my beverage satisfaction?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should. I am very invested in domestic peace.”

I look around the room, then back at him. “You shot my fiancé in a church.”

“Former fiancé.”

“You shot my former fiancé in a church.”

“He insulted my wife.”

My stomach does something stupid. I take another sip of coffee to punish it.

“Your wife was doing fine insulting him herself.”