Page 77 of Marrying the Savage

“Those are emotionally adjacent.”

He pours himself coffee with that bandaged hand, completely unconcerned with the fact that he has just ordered an entire piano because I used it as conversational bait.

“Sit,” he says.

“Don’t order me around.”

“Please sit.”

I narrow my eyes. “That was worse.”

“Still an improvement.”

I should leave. I should storm out, except I don’t know where out is, and also I am barefoot because the shoes Marina gave me are near the bed and I forgot them in the drama of calling Anya. Dignified escape is difficult without footwear.

So I sit, but not because he told me to. Because standing in bare feet while arguing with a fully dressed crime lord feels uneven.

Damir pours more coffee into my cup too.

I glare at him. He knows I’m sarcastic, he has to be. He’s not exactly stupid.

“You know this is not normal.”

“No.”

“No, you don’t know, or no, it isn’t normal?”

“Yes.”

I take a deep breath. It doesn’t help.

He lifts his cup and watches me over the rim. Smirking.

He’s actually smirking now.

Not almost. Not implied. A real, faint, deeply annoying smirk.

I hate him. I absolutely hate him.

I hate his cliff house, his terrifying men, his perfect coffee, his enormous ring, his ability to hear knitting and decide procurement is romance or warfare or whatever strange category this falls under.

I hate that I asked for information about his dead wife five minutes ago and now I am sitting here trying not to laugh because he ordered yarn like a military asset.

I hate that he has made the room feel less like a cage without opening a single door.

“You are enjoying this,” I accuse.

“Yes.”

“At least lie.”

“No.”

“You lied two minutes ago.”

“I was preserving conversation.”

“You are impossible.”