Page 78 of Marrying the Savage

“You said that yesterday.”

“I will probably say it tomorrow too.”

“Good,” he says.

“Good?”

“It means you expect there to be a tomorrow.”

My mouth closes. Just like that, the banter drops too close to something real.

He knows it.

I know he knows it.

For a second, neither of us speaks. The sea crashes below the cliff, steady and violent. The morning light cuts across the table, catching the black thread around my finger, the heavy ring too large for my hand, the bandage wrapped around his palm.

I look away first because I’m not ready for whatever is sitting between us.

Damir lets me.

That might be the most dangerous thing about him. He knows when to push. He knows when not to.

I reach for my coffee and take a sip. Still perfect.

Annoying.

“So,” I say, because retreating into sarcasm is safer than drowning in silence, “when the piano arrives, am I expected to perform for your inner circle like a trained seal?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You will perform for me.”

I nearly choke.

He drinks his coffee. Still smirking.

I set my cup down very carefully. “Damir.”

“Yes, wife?”

The word lands between us.

I look at him across the table. He looks back, calm and unreadable except for the faint satisfaction still curving his mouth.

I should be terrified, and maybe I am. But I am also awake in a way I have not been for months, maybe years. Angry, confused, trapped, alive. Sitting across from a monster who allowed me a private call, noticed my coffee, threatened my friend with surveillance but not harm, and ordered knitting supplies because I tried to irritate him.

This can’t be my life. And yet here I am.

I lift my chin. “If you want a performance,” I say, “you should know I charge very high rates.”

His eyes warm with something I don’t trust. “I can afford you.”

My heart stumbles.

I hate that too.