Page 52 of Marrying the Savage

Damir looks at me. “You were special.”

My breath catches before I can stop it.

Then he adds, “Most brides don’t invite me.”

I exhale sharply. “I didn’t invite you to marry me.”

“No. You invited me to stop the wedding.”

“I invited you to annoy Dmitri.”

“You succeeded.”

“That seems to be the theme of my day.”

Mikhail, seated in the front passenger seat, makes a suspiciously controlled sound that might be a cough and might be laughter deciding it values survival. Damir’s eyes lift briefly to the rearview mirror, and Mikhail becomes very interested in the road.

I lean back against the seat, because my body is finally beginning to understand what happened. The adrenaline thins. The ache in my feet arrives first, then the tightness in my ribs, then the bruised tenderness at my wrist where Dmitri held me too hard during the ceremony. My chest feels hollow and full at the same time.

I am married. Not to Dmitri.

To Damir.

To the man my uncle hates.

The man my uncle says killed his wife.

The thought follows me all the way out of the city.

His house appears just when the road begins to climb. At first, I only see the gates. Black iron. Tall. Severe. No family crest. No ornate flourish. Nothing delicate or decorative. Just two enormous gates set into a stone wall, opening without a sound as the car approaches.

Then the trees part, and I see the house.

For one strange second, all I can think of is Bluebeard. Not the watered-down version from children’s books, but the old story. The young wife. The forbidden room. The husband with too many secrets. The beautiful house that looks like a gift until you realize beauty can be bait.

Damir’s house is perched on a cliff overlooking a black stretch of water, magnificent and lonely against the pale sky. It’s built from dark stone and glass, all sharp lines and old-world grandeur, with terraces carved into the rock and windows that catch the light like watchful eyes. The sea below beats against the cliff with a low, endless violence.

A man accused of killing his wife could not possibly live in a cheerful yellow house with flower boxes and a neighbor named Olga who borrows sugar.

No. He lives in a gothic nightmare with excellent architecture.

“Is there a forbidden room?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Damir looks at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze holds mine a second too long. “You are thinking too loudly.”

“That sounds like a personal problem for you.”

“It often is.”

The car stops in front of the entrance. Before I can open my own door, Damir is already out, coming around to my side. He opens the door and offers his hand.

I stare at it. Large. Bare. Bandaged. His family ring still on his finger, dark metal, old design, the crest worn smooth in places by time.

I take his hand. His fingers close around mine, and the stupid part of my body, the part currently accepting nominations for national betrayal, goes warm.