Yaromir Volkov is not dangerous because he loses control.
He’s dangerous because he doesn’t.
By the time we reach the upper floor, my legs ache from the day and the lack of sleep before it. I have been married, interrogated, paraded through a house, and reminded every ten minutes that I understand almost nothing about the life I’ve entered.
I stop near the landing. “Where am I sleeping?”
Yaromir turns. For some reason, the question changes something in his face. His expression remains controlled, but the silence after it is too long.
“I’ll have the guest bedroom prepared.”
The answer should relieve me.
It does, for one second. Then it hurts.
Stupidly.
I don’t want to share his bed. Of course I don’t. That would be insane. I barely know him. I should be grateful he’s not forcing the matter. This is the right answer, the respectful one, the practical one.
So why does it feel like rejection?
I fold my arms. “Fine.”
His eyes narrow slightly, as if he hears the wrongness in my voice.
Before he can answer, Larisa’s cane strikes the floor behind us.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
We both turn.
She stands at the top of the stairs, watching us with open displeasure. “Nonsense,” she says.
Yaromir goes still.
I already dislike the word before I know what she means.
Larisa looks directly at me. “You will share your husband’s bed.”
Heat rushes into my face.
“That is not your decision,” I say.
Her eyebrow lifts. It’s not a dramatic movement, but it makes me feel young and foolish.
“No?” she asks.
“No.”
Larisa looks at Yaromir. “Did you marry her or adopt her?”
My face burns hotter.
Yaromir says nothing.
