Page 184 of Marrying the Savage

I keep it until the house gates come into view.

27

SOFIA

Marina is waiting near the entrance when we come in.

She looks like she hasn’t slept properly either. Her hair is tied back, her face is pale, and the second she sees me, her eyes fill with the kind of guilt that makes my stomach twist before she even opens her mouth.

“Sofia,” she says softly.

Damir stops beside me. So do the men behind us.

For one uncomfortable second, the whole entrance hall becomes too quiet. Marina looks at Damir first, then back at me, as if she’s not sure whether she’s allowed to speak. I don’t know what expression he gives her, but whatever it is, she takes one step forward.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I blink. “For what?”

“For the shopping trip. For losing sight of you. For not noticing sooner. I should have stayed closer.” The guilt in her voice is real.

Marina didn’t do anything wrong.

I did.

I planned it. I made sure Dmitri saw where I would be. I slipped away when the fighting started. I let Arman’s men take me because I thought I was being clever, and then everything became bigger than me, uglier than me, and far more dangerous than the version I had imagined in my head.

Marina thinks she failed me.

I swallow. My throat hurts.

The creep at the club didn’t leave a bruise yet, but I can feel where his arm pressed into me. I can still feel the way my breath stopped. I can still feel the panic of being held from behind, dragged backward, silenced before I could call out.

I don’t want to talk about it. Not with Marina. Not with anyone.

So I reach for the easiest lie.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.

Her face tightens. “I should have protected you.”

“You were not my guard.”

“No, but I was responsible for you.”

That almost makes me laugh, not because it’s funny, but because the list of people who feel responsible for me keeps growing while I keep making decisions that make everyone’s lives harder.

“You were kind to me,” I say, and my voice comes out quieter than I intend. “That matters more.”

Marina’s eyes shine. I hate that too, because now I feel like crying, and I refuse to cry in the entrance hall with Damir Volodin standing beside me like he’s ready to execute the marble flooring if it looks at me wrong.

Damir’s hand touches the small of my back. I feel it through his coat and my dress, and my body reacts before my pride can stop it. A small, stupid part of me relaxes.

I step forward quickly and hug Marina before anyone can comment. She freezes for half a second, then holds me carefully, as if I might break if she squeezes too hard.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again.

“Don’t be,” I say, though I am the one who should be apologizing.