I can survive this. One more thing, and I can be done for today.
“Dinner. Tonight. You’ll eat with me, Janella Yuri.”
So much for that.
Chapter 5 - Iosif
The doors swing open before we reach them. From within, the warm hum of conversation and delicate clink of crystal spills out. It matches the dark wood and vintage decadence of the furnishings perfectly.
We’re led to my preferred table in the back as soon as we enter, with the newly minted Janella Yuri stiffly hanging onto my arm. The maître d’ at Lumière knows better than to keep me waiting.
“Breathe,” I chide, my lips at the cool shell of her ear. “They don’t bite. I’m the only one who does that.”
Instantly, heat flashes across her cheeks.
I swallow a laugh.
My new wife is a fascinating woman.
I suspect she’d been braced for an awkward dinner at my dining table, not this. I’d known it when I’d finished checking in with Miron and gone to fetch her from her room, only for her to look baffled when I recommended that she grab a coat. I’m sure of it now, watching her self-consciously tug at her dress.
She tries not to gawk at the finery and fails spectacularly. I shouldn’t find it as adorable as I do. But it is. It’s like seeing a freshly-birthed foal striving to find its footing.
In the face of it, I find myself possessively scowling when the maître d’ reaches for her chair. He backs off promptly. I help her out of her coat, and then pull out her chair myself, watching Janella shiftily look around as she sinks into it. I take my seat across from her and wave the man away.
A server flits in and places a pair of menus in front of us.
“Sparkling,” I say before he can ask about water preferences.
And then we’re alone.
Beneath the warm, intimate lighting, I get to really look at Janella. There’s no denying that she’s a very pretty woman. She still wears the black dress she’d refused to change out of when I offered to wait—It’s fine, none of it’s really my taste, it doesn’t matter—like she’s doing it a favor. The fabric clings to her like she’d been poured into it.
It contradicts the meek set of her features.
I decide she should never, ever play poker. She wears her anxiety plainly, fidgeting with everything from her napkin to her cuticles.
I’m wearing my focus, too.
“What?” Janella squeaks, high-pitched and self-conscious.
“Nothing.”
“You’re—” she huffs. “You’re staring, Iosif.”
I don’t deny it. Lying’s boring anyway. “So?”
“I know I should’ve changed,” Janella mutters, spreading out her napkin in her lap like she’s ready to disappear beneath it.
“That’s not why people were turning their heads to look at you. They’re hardwired to do that when a beautiful woman walks by, Janella,” I scoff, shaking my head. “Besides, you said you didn’t want to change, right?”
Janella stares down at her hands, her fingers knotting together.
“You said,” I try, “it isn’t to your taste.”
Still, she says nothing. There’s a furrow between her brows now.
Her father really did a number on her. In a way, that’s obvious. Just look at the circumstances under which we’ve met. But she doesn’t wear that damage on the surface. She’s got pride in her. Fire. I saw it just yesterday.
