Page 73 of Marrying the Savage

“Yes,” Damir says. “I noticed.”

For some reason, that annoys me more than it should.

“You notice too much,” I tell him.

“Not possible.”

“Deeply possible. You are basically a surveillance state with cheekbones.”

This time, he does smile. Devastating.

I hate him immediately.

He steps into the room without asking permission, which I suppose is one of the many rights a man assumes when he owns both the house and the armed men outside it. He stops near the table, close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap, smoke, and expensive fabric. No cologne this morning, or if there is, it’s subtle enough to feel accidental.

Nothing about Damir Volodin is accidental.

“You asked for Anya,” he says.

“You allowed it.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked.”

I laugh once. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend this is simple. You don’t strike me as a man who does things because people ask nicely.”

“You didn’t ask nicely.”

“Exactly.”

His eyes move over my face, unreadable and far too attentive. “I’m not trying to cut you off from the people you love.”

“Really?” I say, ignoring the little flip in my stomach when he said it. “Then may I call my uncle?”

“You don’t love him,” he says matter-of-factly.

I look away first.

Mistake.

The window gives me the sea, and the sea gives me nowhere to hide.

“I wanted proof she was alive,” I say.

“She is.”

“You checked?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”