“That’s not the only reason.”
“But it is a reason.”
“Yes.”
At least he does not lie. That should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
I turn away from him and step closer to Buran’s stall. The horse lifts his head and looks at me with flat suspicion. I almost envy him. He gets to bite people who annoy him.
“What is the name of the gala?” I ask.
“The Sokolov-Morozov Winter Auction.”
I blink. “Sokolov?”
“Not your family.”
“Good,” I mutter.
“It’s held at the old Imperial Exchange building. Formal dress. Press outside, private security inside. Half the guests will be businessmen, politicians, collectors. The other half will be criminals pretending to be the first three.”
“And which half are you?”
He doesn’t dignify my question with an answer.
I look past him toward the open stable door. The estate grounds stretch beyond it, controlled and quiet. Somewhere out there is the gate I’m not allowed to walk through alone. Somewhere beyond that is the city where I ran, hid, worked, survived badly.
Tonight, I go back into it wearing diamonds and his name.
My stomach twists. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Stand beside me.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, for now,” he says, which tells me he’s already planning something. For some reason that scares the shit out of me. It can’t mean anything good.
“I need a dress,” I say.
“You will have one.”
“Not something your aunt chooses.”
His expression flattens. “Larisa will choose nothing for you.”
“Good.”
“You will have options sent up within the hour.”
“I want to choose.”
“You will.”
The answer surprises me. I try not to let it show.
Yaromir sees anyway. “Do you want me to choose your dress for you?” He actually looks confused.
