There it was.
The right question.
The one I owed her.
I looked at her bare shoulder, then back to her eyes. “Because my father fell.”
Her anger faltered.
“Your father.”
“Mikhail Sorin. He is ill. He pretends he is not. Tonight, he collapsed at the house while the doctor was there. My mother called me because he refused the hospital and tried to send the doctor away.”
Nadia said nothing.
“I had to decide whether to move him against his order or let him stay in his bed with blood in his hair and pride in his mouth.”
Her fingers loosened on the blanket.
“I handled it,” I said. “Too slowly. Gennady’s auctioneer moved your lot out of order while I was still dealing with my family. By the time Lev had confirmation, the bidding had begun. By the time I entered the room, Gennady had won.”
Her throat moved.
“You were coming to outbid him?”
“Yes.”
“And when that failed, you just took me.”
“Yes.”
She stared at the table. The tea steamed between us. The soup sat untouched. The city threw white light along the edge of her cheek.
“Did you pay them?”
“I settled enough at the venue to walk out without men shooting behind you.”
Her eyes lifted. “How much?”
“It does not matter.”
“It matters if you think I owe you.”
“You don’t.”
“That isn’t how men like you think.”
“You know many men like me?”
“I know enough men who buy women.”
The answer deserved the hit.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands open. “I wanted to stop Gennady from having you. I still want that. I also want you in my bed, under my roof, wearing my name, carrying my child, and standing beside me when my father’s chair becomes mine. I want you as my wife, Nadia. Mother of my children. Mother of the next Pakhan. The woman who makes the Sorin name mean family instead of only blood and fear.”
Her breath caught.
There was the danger. Not Gennady. Not the auction. Me, telling too much truth too soon because the sight of her wrapped in my blanket had broken something measured in me.
