Page 75 of Marrying the Savage

“That was not an answer.”

“It was the only one I felt like giving.”

His expression doesn’t soften. Damir doesn’t seem like the type to soften on command. But something in his attention changes, less predatory, more careful.

I hate that too.

“You were educated abroad,” he says.

“Briefly.”

“Languages?”

“Several.”

“Which ones?”

“Russian, English, French, Italian. Enough German to insult someone’s shoes and order cake.”

“Useful.”

“For diplomacy or dessert?”

“Both.”

I look down at the ridiculous ring tied to my finger, then back at him. “If you already investigated me, why are you asking?”

“Reports tell me facts. I prefer answers.”

“That sounds like something embroidered on the wall of a very threatening school.”

“What did they teach you best?” he asks.

I know what he means. He means etiquette, alliances, family histories, seating rules, names of men whose hands I should shake and men whose wives I should flatter. He means piano recitals and charity committees and how to smile when old men tell me my mother would have been proud. He means the training that turned me into a useful ornament before anyone bothered asking whether I wanted to be useful.

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of an honest answer.

So I say, “Piano.”

His gaze narrows slightly.

“And knitting,” I add.

There’s a pause. The pause is worth everything.

“Knitting,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“You knit.”

“Beautifully.”

His eyes drop briefly to my hands, to the giant ring wobbling on my finger, then back to my face. “What do you knit?”

“Threats, mostly.”

“That sounds inefficient.”