“Because she’s right about one thing,” he says.
My stomach tightens. “What?”
“If you sleep in a guest room tonight, people will notice.”
“So?”
“So by morning, Dmitri will know. My father will know. The city will know by dinner. The story becomes that I married you and couldn’t even get you into my bed.”
My cheeks burn. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yes.”
“You care what they think?”
“I care what they use.”
The answer is too practical to dismiss.
I hate it anyway.
“So I’m supposed to share your room for appearances.”
“Yes.”
“And nothing happens.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. Only for a second, but I feel it everywhere.
“Nothing happens unless you ask for it.”
My breath catches.
He sees that too. Of course he does.
I hate this. I hate him. I hate that my body has no loyalty to my anger.
I look away first. “Fine,” I say.
His voice stays even. “Fine?”
“I’ll sleep in your room.”
“You can have the bed.”
I look back at him. “And where will you sleep?”
“The chair. The sofa. The floor. Wherever I decide.”
“You would sleep on the floor in your own room?”
“If necessary.”
For some reason, that makes me angrier. Because it sounds like the man from the study again. The man with terms. The man who made me feel like I had some agency of my own. I don’t know which version is real.
Maybe both.
Maybe that’s the danger.
