“I saw Yaromir Volkov today,” I say casually.
The reaction is immediate. Sergei stills completely. Even the ice in his glass stops moving. “Where?”
“At the restaurant.”
His jaw tightens. “What did he want?” The question comes too quickly.
I shrug. “Nothing. We spoke for maybe a minute.”
“That’s a minute too long.”
I blink at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says carefully now, “that Yaromir is not a man you involve yourself with.”
“He’s Dmitri’s brother.”
“Half brother.” The correction snaps out instantly.
There’s real dislike there. Maybe even fear.
I lean back slightly. “You don’t talk about him much.”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about.”
“That’s not true.”
Sergei drains the rest of his drink. “Anya.” His warning tone. I’ve hated it since I was twelve. “He’s dangerous,” he says. “Stay away from him.”
Something about the way he says it irritates me immediately. Not protective. Controlling. Like he’s trying to hide something.
“Dangerous how?”
“That’s enough.”
I stare at him. God, I hate him sometimes. I hate how quickly he bends for powerful men. I hate how he speaks about loyalty while spending his entire life afraid. I hate that he acts like this marriage is some great victory when everyone knows he would hand me over to secure his own survival.
Maybe he already has.
I push my chair back. “I’m tired.”
“Anya.”
I pause in the doorway.
“You should focus on Dmitri,” Sergei says. “Not Yaromir.”
The way he says the names makes my skin crawl. Like one is safety and the other is ruin.
I go upstairs without answering.
My bedroom is colder than the rest of the house. I leave the lights off except for the lamp near my bed and change slowly, slipping out of my dress and into a thin camisole.
Then I check my phone.
Nothing from Dmitri. Not even a goodnight.
I stare at the screen longer than I should.
