So, I leaned into the doorframe and threw the worst version of myself at her like a grenade.
If you're that desperate, you'd marry me.
It wasn't a question. It was a test. I wanted the flinch. I wanted to see what she'd do when she looked up and saw the full picture, the scar and the dead eye and the challenge in my voice. I wanted her to hesitate so I could tell myself I was right about everything I've always believed.
She didn't flinch.
She said yes.
Notmaybe.NotI'd have to think about it.Not a polite dodge or a glance at my mother for rescue. Justyes,like I'd asked her if she wanted more tea.
Now I'm standing in my mother's conservatory, staring at a woman whose name I learned five minutes ago, trying to figureout if Anya Agapova is brave or reckless or just so terrified of the alternative that a scarred man with one working eye looks like a good deal by comparison.
That last one sits in my stomach like a stone.
"Connor." Ma's voice pulls me back. She's watching me with that expression I know too well. The one that's equal parts love and warning. "A word."
I don’t move as she stands and walks towards the door. I just keep looking at Anya, who keeps looking right back at me.
"Now, Connor."
I hold Anya's gaze for one more second. She hasn't looked away. She hasn't dropped her eyes to the floor or shifted them to my right side. She's looking at my whole face, both eyes, the scar, everything. Her expression isn't pity or disgust or even the careful blankness I've learned to recognize as someone trying very hard to be polite.
She looks... steady. Like she's made her decision and she's not interested in second-guessing it.
I turn and follow my mother into the hall.
"What are you doing?" Ma keeps her voice low, but there's heat in it. She pulls me far enough from the door that Anya won't hear.
"Solving a problem."
"You're not solving anything, you're being impulsive. You heard her story, you saw a beautiful girl in trouble, and you decided to play hero."
"I'm not playing hero." I lean against the wall and cross my arms. "We all have to marry. Council's orders. Liam made that clear enough when he dragged me back from Dublin last week. So what's the difference if I marry her or some stranger Liam lines up for me?"
"I understand the expectations of you, son. But I won’t let you test a woman because you have misplaced insecurities about your looks."
Her words cut right to the meat of the matter.
“You expected her to recoil from you so you could prove your own ridiculous belief of yourself right, and it’s just backfired because you read her wrong. I won’t let you marry Anya if all she is to you is some stupid game for your ego. Or some ludicrously warped‘proof’that no woman could love you because of a scar. That’s not how I raised you.”
I watch her as she gathers herself, takes a deep breath, her nostrils flaring as her chin dips with the exhale. It’s rare ma loses her shit, but I can see the signs that she is on the edge of that right now…because of me.
“Ma…I…”
“You nothing,” she shuts me down with a look that tells me to tread no further. “You’ve just made your bed Connor Orlov, and invited Anya into it. You treat her right or her brother will be the least of your problems.”
"Liam's calling Diomid right now. It'll be handled." I look at her. "Ma. She needs this. And I need a wife. The math isn't complicated." I shake my head with resignation, partially from being called out, and partially because really, neither Anya nor I have a lot of choice in the circumstances we’ve found ourselves in.
“You could ask Rafferty if he is interested,” I add, but we both know Rafferty is hiding out trying to dodge the marriage being set up for him.
Ma studies me the way she studies everyone, like she's reading the parts I'm not saying out loud. I hold still and let her lookbecause there's no point hiding from Saoirse Orlov. She's been seeing through my bullshit since I was old enough to produce it.
"You like her," Ma says quietly.
"I don't know her."
"But there’s something there..."
