“Let them,” I say.
She gives me a skeptical look. “You seriously don’t mind that they act like you’re... I don’t know... some mafia celebrity? Not a beloved one.”
I grin slightly. “They are jealous of you.”
She rolls her eyes, but the faint pink on her cheeks betrays her.
“Jealous of me?” she asks with shy sincerity.
“Da. You’re a wealthy, high-ranking wife of a powerful bratva. Being a Sokolov, the Ravens... a lot of women would love to switch places with you.”
“They would? But they fear you.”
“Theyrespectme,” I say calm, then grin impishly.
She muses, considering my words. Then she crosses her arms and shrugs.
“I don’t think Keira is jealous of me. I think I hurt her prim and proper feelings.” She sulks and looks up at me. “Honestly, I think everyone hates me because I’m American. Because I think this country is terrible toward women. Why does that make me a bad person?”
I was aware her and Keira had a falling out, but the reasoning doesn’t sound like Keira.
“Peighton, it might be the same reason people tend to avoid me. Our delivery.”
“How so?”
“You’re like a cat that was put in a bag, and now you’re out, hissing and scratching everyone.”
“I am?”
She is a storm of rage and nerves. Worse than before. Perhaps I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Perhaps Peighton needs me as much as I need her. I don’t know how to help her, though.
“Do not worry.” I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Go inside with a smile.”
She hesitates, but obeys, looking over her shoulder at me.
A few students gawk. One man tries to approach her as she walks in. I step closer, just enough that my shadow falls over him. He retreats instantly. Good.
I find a place to wait and burn time.
When class ends, she walks out and doesn’t see me. Too far away. She stamps her foot and sighs. I almost snort at how wound up she is. This girl needs to relax.
I stand and gesture to get her attention. Her annoyance evaporates. She looks almost shy as she heads over.
I kiss her lips gently. Then I pull her into a warm hug. She stiffens at first, like she is guarded. Then she melts. It is subtle, but I feel it in the way her hands lightly grip my coat.
“It’s nice to be hugged,” she mutters.
Noted. I can give her lots of those.
We walk together through the courtyard. I open doors for her. I watch her feet so she does not slip on ice. She is weary of everything. Of me. She is suspicious of my kindness, but I can tell she likes it.
We eat lunch in a quiet study area. I sit close, thigh firm to hers. Her fingers play with the edge of her napkin, betraying how aware she is of my body.
People pass by and greet us. Some men bow their heads. Some women flutter their lashes.
“People are not usually like this. It’s just because you’re here,” she whispers.
She shifts closer, just a little, as if staking her claim.
