Page 1 of Marrying the Savage

1

SOFIA

By the time Dmitri Sokolov finishes explaining why the Sokolov name “commands respect across three continents,” I have already buttered my bread roll with the careful focus of a woman deciding whether the knife is better suited for spreading butter or stabbing him right through his head.

Across from me, my fiancé sits like the private dining room has been arranged around him.

Which, honestly, he probably believes.

He wears a charcoal suit that looks expensive enough to have its own inheritance plan. His dark hair is combed neatly away from his face, not a strand out of place, and every time he lifts his hand to make some grand point about discipline or loyalty or legacy, the gold watch on his wrist catches the chandelier light.

It flashes again and again. Like a warning signal.

My uncle sits beside me, quiet and watchful.

Sergei Antonov does not interrupt Dmitri. He doesn’t need to. He simply holds his wineglass and observes everything with that calm, measured patience he uses whenever I am one sarcastic comment away from embarrassing him in public.

Which, to be fair, is most of the time.

“And naturally,” Dmitri says, taking a slow sip of wine, “the room agrees with me. They always do, eventually.”

I smile over the rim of my glass. “How comforting for the room.”

Dmitri looks at me for a second, as if he senses there might be a trap but can’t locate it. Then his mouth curves into a pleased smile. “You have a sharp tongue.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“It will soften after marriage.”

My uncle’s fork pauses halfway to his plate.

I turn my smile fully on Dmitri. “Will it? How exciting. Should I expect other medical miracles too?”

For one beautiful second, Dmitri doesn’t understand. Then his eyes narrow.

My uncle sets his fork down with enough care to make it feel more dangerous than if he had slammed it. “Sofia,” he says quietly.

My name in that tone. The one that means, Remember where you are. Remember who he is. Remember what this marriage means.

As if I could forget.

The restaurant is called Le Cygne Noir, because apparently rich criminals prefer to eat in places named after depressed birds. Everything is velvet chairs, gold-rimmed plates, crystal chandeliers, and waiters who move so silently I’m convinced they have either been trained by monks or threatened by my uncle before we arrived.

Outside our private room, soft piano music drifts through the air.

It’s delicate, romantic, and completely ridiculous, considering my entire future is being negotiated between the appetizer and the main course.

Not that anyone asks me to negotiate. I’m not a negotiator.

I am the asset.

The Antonov orphan. The convenient niece. The pretty little bridge between two dangerous families who have decided that peace will look much better in a white dress.

Dmitri cuts into his steak with surgical confidence. “I’ve been thinking about the wedding photographs.”

“How charming of you,” I say, trying to keep the dryness out of my tone.

He ignores that. Dmitri has an impressive survival instinct when it comes to sarcasm. If he doesn’t understand it, apparently it can’t hurt him.