Anya doesn’t look at him when he passes her. That, more than anything, tells me how deeply he has hurt her.
When the door closes, she and I are alone. The fire snaps softly behind me, and for several seconds, neither of us speaks.
She stands near the center of the study, shoulders tense, eyes bright with fury she’s trying not to let turn into tears. I have seen men beg with more dignity than Sergei. I have seen killers die with less courage than this girl is using to stand here.
Her mouth tightens. “You planned this?”
“I made an offer.”
“To my father.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not marrying you,” she says.
I walk away from the fireplace, slowly enough that she has time to retreat if she chooses.
She doesn’t. She watches me come closer, and for all the anger in her eyes, her breathing changes before I’m within arm’s reach. Just slightly. A catch. A pause. Her body remembers me, even if she wishes it didn’t.
I stop in front of her. Not touching. Close enough to see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. “You can say no,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow. “Can I?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me leave.”
“The door is not locked.”
Her gaze flicks past me.
She checks. Smart girl.
She looks back, less certain now. “And if I walk out?”
“I won’t stop you.”
“But?”
I almost smile.
Not as airheaded as she looked at lunch. Not even close.
“But your father’s debt remains,” I say. “The men he owes will not care that Dmitri humiliated you. They will not care that Sergei used you. They will not care that you are tired.”
Her face hardens at the mention of Dmitri. I notice that too.
“They will kill him,” I say.
The color drains from her face, though she tries to hide it.
“I know.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t.”
Her lips part, then close again.
I step a fraction closer. Still not touching.
