Page 68 of Marrying the Savage

“I know what she is.”

“Do you?”

I pick up the file again because if I look at him much longer, I may have to answer honestly.

She’s a problem. A weapon. A witness.

A woman who invited me into a war because she wanted one door opened and didn’t realize I would tear the wall down around it.

She is Pavel Antonov’s daughter, Sergei’s niece, Sokolov’s humiliation, and my wife. She is also upstairs in my house, wearing my ring on a thread and probably planning six different ways to escape before lunch.

For reasons I don’t examine closely, the thought pleases me.

“She is useful,” I say.

Mikhail’s expression tells me he doesn’t believe for one second that I have chosen the right word. “Whatever she is to you, decide before Sergei decides for you. We have a war coming.”

I hold his gaze.

Then I think of Sofia’s neck marked by my mouth, my blood on her lips, my father’s ring on her hand. “I’ve already decided,” I say.

Mikhail’s face reveals nothing, but his silence tells me he understands.

I leave the study and walk toward breakfast, toward my new wife, toward the problem I carried out of a church and into my house like a man foolish enough to believe fire can be held without burning.

The difference is, I know exactly what fire does.

I built my life from ashes.

12

SOFIA

The phone arrives with coffee.

That feels suspiciously generous.

Not the coffee. The coffee feels necessary for my continued survival and for the safety of everyone within conversational distance. But the phone is unexpected.

A young woman from the staff brings both on a silver tray, along with a small pot of cream. She is maybe in her late thirties, dark-haired, neat, careful, and clearly trained to move through this house without making unnecessary sound. She sets everything on the small table near the window of my bedroom and offers me a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Mr. Volodin said you may call your friend.”

I stare at the phone on the tray. It’s sleek, black, and new enough to make me think it has either never belonged to anyone else or has been wiped clean of every trace of the last unfortunate woman who used it.

Bluebeard, please leave my brain.

“He said that?” I ask.

“Yes, madam.”

Madam.

I nearly choke on nothing. “I’m sorry, did you say madam?”

Her expression does not change. “Yes, madam.”

“No. Absolutely not. Madam is what you call women who own unpleasant little dogs and complain about hotel towels.”