Viktor notices that too.
His jaw tightens. “Out,” he says.
Ethan doesn’t move. “Father?—”
“Out.”
This time the word cracks through the room like a shot.
Ethan flinches.
Actually flinches.
For one second I think he might still argue. Then his gaze flicks to me, sees something in my face, and whatever he finds therefinishes it. Shame, maybe. Or the fact that I’m terrified. Or that none of this is ambiguous anymore.
He takes one step back. Then another step.
Viktor moves aside just enough to let him pass, but not much. Not generously. Ethan goes by him with his shoulders tight and his mouth set hard, like he’s swallowing words he knows better than to say.
At the door, Viktor says, without turning, “You will stay away from her for the rest of this weekend.”
Ethan stops.
“And if you ever touch her like that again,” Viktor continues, still in that same terrible calm, “you will find out how little patience I have left for your mistakes.”
Ethan says nothing, and a moment later he walks away.
The silence after that is worse.
Because now it’s just me and Viktor.
I’m shaking badly enough I have to fold my arms to hide it.
Viktor closes the door quietly behind him and turns to face me. Then his gaze drops to my wrist. “Let me see.”
I hesitate. I should tell him I’m fine. I should say it doesn’t matter. I should keep my distance from him and from this whole impossible night.
Instead I give him my hand.
His fingers close gently around my wrist and turn it under the low bedside light. The marks are already coming up, faint andangry, the shape of Ethan’s grip starting to bloom against my skin.
Viktor’s thumb brushes just beneath them.
The touch is careful. His face is not.
I can feel the anger in him without him saying a word. It’s there in the set of his mouth, in the stillness of his shoulders, in the way he keeps his head slightly bent over my arm like he’s making himself stay quiet by force.
His thumb moves once over the sore spot, light enough that it shouldn’t do much. It still makes me suck in a breath.
His eyes lift to mine. “I should have done more.”
Something twists in my chest.
I shake my head. “You already did too much.”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be here either,” I say, and my voice comes out thin and unsteady.
