Page 146 of Marrying the Savage

There it is. The line meant to cut.

It does. She sees it land, and some small flare of satisfaction warms her face before she hides it again. My difficult wife is not as subtle as she thinks, but she is very determined, which can be more dangerous.

“I didn’t choose them for you,” I say.

“No. You only recognized them and decided silence was the best accessory.”

I look at her. Her dress hangs open between us. Her skin is flushed, breasts still damp where my mouth was. The torn fabric gapes from throat to waist, showing the red marks of my hands on her hips. She shouldn’t be able to look this furious while half-naked and thoroughly ruined.

She does anyway. It’s inconveniently impressive.

“You had no clothes,” I say.

“Your household has money, staff, cars, weapons, doctors, guards, fake companies, and probably a man whose entire job is making inconvenient bodies disappear. Are you telling me no one could buy me a dress?”

“That was being arranged.”

“And until then, what? Dress the new wife in the old wife’s wardrobe and hope she doesn’t notice the ghost in the hem?” Her voice wavers on the last word. Only slightly.

Most men would miss it. I don’t.

The anger is real. But beneath it, something else moves. Embarrassment. Hurt. Maybe fear. She doesn’t like being made to feel foolish. She likes it less than being threatened.

I understand that.

A threat can be fought. Humiliation stays under the skin.

“Sofia,” I say.

“No.” She bends, snatches the edges of her dress together, and fumbles with what remains of the buttons. Her hands are not steady. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to become reasonable after being horrible.”

“I have not been horrible.”

She laughs once. “You are a man. Of course you think that.”

I should end this. I should tell her the truth plainly enough to stop the dramatics. The clothes were in a guest wardrobe after Elena’s things were sorted. Marina chose what would fit. I saw one dress last night and recognized it too late, and yes, I said nothing because the dead have already stolen enough from this house and I refused to let a piece of silk claim the living woman standing before me.

I should say that.

Instead, I say, “You should change.”

Her eyes flash. “Excellent idea. Into what, Damir? Another tragic relic?”

Sofia is angry, but she’s no longer only angry. She is arranging herself. The dress. The wounded look. The chin lifted just enough. The exposed vulnerability made into accusation. It’s not false, but it’s aimed.

At me.

I know weapons. I should recognize this one.

But she’s standing there with my marks on her body, and her mouth still tastes like mine, and some primitive, idiotic part of me is more occupied with the fact that I hurt her pride than with the question of why she’s pressing so hard now.

“I want my own clothes,” she says.

“That can be arranged.”