“Dmitri used to,” I say, and then regret it immediately when his face hardens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I don’t care,” he says. Something tells me he’s lying. “Do not confuse me with Dmitri.”
“I don’t,” I reply. The words come out quieter than I intend.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then he says, “Good.”
The silence that follows is not comfortable, but it’s not empty either.
I turn back to Buran because I need somewhere else to look.
“He knows how to bite,” Yaromir says.
“So do I.”
“I noticed.”
My face heats before I can stop it.
He’s thinking of last night. So am I.
I hate him for making me remember it in a stable, in daylight, when I’m supposed to be discussing public humiliation and formal gowns.
I clear my throat. “What if I don’t want to go tonight?”
“Then you don’t go.”
I look at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“I need to know something first,” I say.
“What?”
“Will you warn me next time before you throw me into a room full of people who hate me?”
A beat.
Then he nods once. “Yes.”
Not a grand apology. Not even an apology at all. But with Yaromir, a promise feels heavier than most men’s regret.
I look toward the estate. “Then I want a dress that makes anyone who looks at me choke.”
This time, his mouth does curve.
Only slightly.
Only for a second.
But I see it.
“That,” he says, “can be arranged.”
18
