Page 126 of Marrying the Savage

Then I move.

My thighs ache. My breasts feel tender. There’s a delicious soreness low in my body, one that makes heat rush into my face even though there’s no one here to see it. I stare up at the ceiling, perfectly still, while last night returns in pieces.

Damir in the doorway.

His voice saying, I promised you.

His hands under the silk. His mouth on my breast. His body over mine, inside mine, patient and brutal and careful in ways that should not belong to the same man.

I close my eyes. The moment I do, I feel it again. The weight of him between my thighs. The stretch of him. His mouth against my neck. His voice near my ear, low and rough, calling me wife like it’s not a legal status but a secret he has bitten into my skin.

My body responds immediately. Shamelessly. Heat gathers low in my stomach, sliding into a slow, molten ache between my thighs. I press my knees together beneath the sheets and make a small sound of pure outrage.

Apparently my body has converted to the Volodin religion overnight.

I turn my face into the pillow and groan. This is humiliating.

This is also, unfortunately, extremely nice.

I lie there for another minute, breathing in the faint scent of him on the sheets, before I force myself to sit up. The blanket slips down to my waist. My hair is a disaster over one shoulder. The old ivory dress is ruined somewhere near the foot of the bed, half-torn, wrinkled, and abandoned like evidence of a crime I participated in enthusiastically and will still be blaming entirely on him for legal reasons.

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

No sound from the bathroom. No movement near the wardrobe. No dark suit jacket thrown over a chair. No husband standing near the window brooding at the sea like a villain in need of weather.

He is gone.

The realization feels strange.

Not painful. Not exactly. Just… strange.

I should be relieved. I have spent the last several days being carried, cornered, ordered, married, kissed, questioned, watched, and touched by Damir Volodin. A sensible woman would wake up alone and thank every saint still willing to take her calls.

Instead, I stare at the empty side of the bed and feel oddly hollow.

Then I become irritated because apparently one night of sex has turned me into a tragic widow with access to excellent pillows.

“No,” I tell the room.

The room offers no argument.

I get out of bed carefully, wincing a little because my body has opinions. There’s a tray on the small table near the window: water, a folded note, and coffee in a silver pot that is somehow still warm.

The note is short.

Eat.

That’s all. No signature. No good morning. No apology for leaving. No explanation. Just one arrogant little command written in black ink.

I stare at it. Then I pick up the coffee pot.

“I’m only obeying because caffeine is bigger than pride,” I mutter.

By the time I bathe and dress, I feel almost human. Marina has left another dress for me, soft gray wool this time, high-necked and elegant, with sleeves that cover my wrists. I eye it suspiciously before putting it on, mostly because everything in this house seems to come with a history and probably a curse.

The ring is still tied to my finger with black thread.

I think about removing it. Briefly.