Page 127 of Marrying the Savage

Very briefly.

Then I imagine Damir noticing its absence, looking at me with that calm, infuriating patience, and saying something like, Did it become too heavy, wife?

So I leave it on.

Not because of him. Because I enjoy not having arguments before breakfast.

This is a lie, obviously. I enjoy arguments immensely. I just don’t know what this particular argument would cost.

Downstairs, breakfast is set in the morning room overlooking the sea. The table is too long for one person and too formal for eggs, but the coffee is perfect again, so I decide to forgive the furniture.

Damir is not there. I knew he wouldn’t be.

Still, I look.

Marina appears with toast and fruit. “Good morning, Sofia.”

I glance at her, pleased despite myself that she doesn’t call me madam. “Good morning. Has my husband been abducted by his own brooding?”

Her mouth twitches. “Mr. Volodin left early. He had business.”

“Everyone in this house has business. It’s like a disease.”

“He asked that you eat.”

I lift the note from beside my cup. “Yes, I received the royal decree.”

“He also asked that you rest today.”

I take a sip of coffee. “That sounds fake.”

“It does?”

“Damir Volodin doesn’t ask. He orders and then stands there looking expensive until reality obeys.”

Marina very wisely busies herself with the cream pot.

I look back at the empty chair.

Fine. That’s fine.

We’re not a normal married couple. Normal married couples don’t begin with church shootings, improvised vows, and sex in a dead woman’s dress. Normal married couples probably have cheerful breakfast conversation and matching towels.

Damir and I have blood, secrets, and a cliff.

So yes. Fine.

I’m buttering toast with unnecessary violence when someone appears in the doorway. At first, I think it’s Anya, which is impossible but briefly wonderful.

It’s not.

It’s Grigori’s wife.

She stands at the entrance of the morning room in a pale blue dress, her blond hair pinned back again, her posture careful. Today, without panic sharpening her face, she looks younger than she did on the terrace. Still composed. Still cool. But tired around the eyes in a way I recognize.

I set down the knife.

“Good morning,” she says. Her voice is formal.