First Yaromir. Then me.
She takes in his unbuttoned collar, the split knuckles, my bare feet, my ruined hair, his shirt around my body, the throw clutched at my chest.
She knows. Only a fool wouldn’t, and Larisa isn’t one.
Her gaze drops lower for a second, to the floor inside the drawing room. To the torn red dress visible near the table. To the rug in front of the dying fire. When she looks back at me, disgust flickers across her face. Like I’m something cheap that has been left in the wrong room.
My stomach tightens.
Yaromir sees it before I can hide it.
His voice is flat. “Why are you here?”
Larisa doesn’t look away from me. “I could ask the same of your wife. Though the answer appears obvious.”
Heat rushes to my face. I tighten the throw around myself.
Yaromir steps slightly in front of me.
I should resent that. I don’t.
“Look at me when you speak,” he says.
Larisa’s eyes shift to him slowly. “Do not use that tone with me.”
“Don’t look at my wife like that.”
Larisa’s mouth tightens. “You slept in the drawing room.”
“We slept where we wanted.”
“You could have been discovered.”
Yaromir’s expression doesn’t change. “It’s a good thing you saw us then.”
The words are calm. There’s no embarrassment in him. No apology. No attempt to explain away the torn dress, the rug, the evidence of what happened between us. He says it like he wouldhave let the whole house walk through and still not lower his eyes.
Larisa’s fingers tighten around the top of her cane. “Do you think this is amusing?”
“No.”
“You are careless.”
His voice stays even. “I was in my house with my wife.”
“In the drawing room.”
“Yes.”
“Like an animal.”
My face burns hotter.
Yaromir takes one step toward her. “Choose your next words carefully.”
The hallway goes cold.
Larisa lifts her chin. “You think I’m insulting you?”
