“No.”
Ilya’s expression sharpens. “No because you haven’t thought about it, or no because you have?”
I don’t answer that either.
He laughs under his breath. “Right.”
Anton shifts, uncomfortable now, and looks pointedly at the window. Sergei pours himself another drink and pretends not to listen, which means he’s listening to every word.
I set my glass down, carefully. “She is not an option.”
“Why?” Ilya asks.
“Because,” I say, too evenly, “I am not marrying a woman who can become my weakness.”
That wipes the humor off his face. He sits forward a little. “Any wife becomes a vulnerability.”
“Not like her.”
That comes out before I can stop it.
I hate myself for it immediately.
Ilya doesn’t miss it. “So that’s what this is.”
I say nothing.
He nods once, slow, like he’s assembling the pieces in real time. “You don’t want some socialite because you won’t care if she hates you. You don’t want a matchmaker because they’ll picksomeone strategic. You picked Zatanna because some part of you knew she’d see through the list, see through the women, see through you.”
“That’s not why.”
“No?” He tips his head. “Then why does the idea of her with someone else bother you more than the idea of marrying her?”
My jaw tightens. Because he’s too close now.
Because I don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound like obsession.
Because the truth is ugly and simple: I could marry a hundred polished, suitable women and never care. But Zatanna would matter. She would get under my skin, into my routines, into my head, into the part of me that still remembers what it is to want something for myself instead of for strategy or survival.
And that makes her dangerous.
“I’m not discussing this,” I say.
Ilya studies me for another long second, then exhales through his nose. “Fine.”
But the word means nothing. He’s not letting it go. He’s just changing tactics.
“If she’s off the table,” he says, “then you’d better make sure the next woman is one you can stand looking at. Because one week from now, you’ll either be engaged or buried under whatever your father has planned.”
Sergei finally speaks. “And if the attacks continue, plain or not, the girl needs protection.” The word plain in that context sends another spike of irritation through me.
Plain.
As if he’s talking about a piece of furniture.
As if her mouth doesn’t undo me. As if her eyes don’t catch every lie I tell. As if she doesn’t walk into a room and rearrange the gravity of it.
I lean back, forcing my voice colder than I feel. “No one says another word about her appearance.”
