Page 134 of Marrying the Savage

So I make a plan. Plans are good. Plans are practical. Plans are what intelligent women make after realizing they have married a man everyone treats like a locked room with a pulse.

I spend time playing with Maksim to distract myself.

Soon days become weeks, and weeks become months in Volodin House, though I can’t decide whether that makes me safer or only more settled in a place I still have no right to call home. Damir doesn’t force himself into my room again, but he doesn’t stay away either. He appears at breakfast, in corridors, in the music room where the piano sits like proof that he listens too closely. Some nights I want him. Some nights I hate him for making me want anything inside a house I didn’t choose.

When I do want him, Damir takes me into his arms and kisses me until I forget where I am. He’s twice my age, and boy does he have stamina. My cheeks warm just at the thought of his pulsing cock inside of me. He takes me for hours, sometimes, when he wants to.

Maybe I’m a coward, but I don’t bring up the business with his dead wife.

By the time the ninth week ends, I know two things clearly: I am drawn to my husband, and I still need to know whether I can leave him. I’m close to something dangerous, so of course, I have to leave. Even if it’s for a little while, just to clear my head.

The first part of the plan is simple. Get out of the house.

The second part is more complicated. Don’t die while getting out of the house.

The third part is a little vague, but I feel confident that once I’m outside the cliffside murder castle, inspiration will arrive.

At eleven, Marina comes in with coffee and a breakfast tray I didn’t ask for.

I look at the tray. Then at her.

“No.”

She sighs. “You need to eat.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Has anyone medically confirmed this?”

“Sofia.”

I narrow my eyes. “You are becoming less afraid of me.”

“I was never afraid of you.”

“That is rude.”

Her mouth twitches. She sets the tray on the table anyway.

I wait until she pours the coffee because I am angry, not suicidal, then say, “I need a phone.”

Her hand pauses for half a second.

There. That tiny hesitation. The whole house is built out of tiny hesitations.

“A phone,” I repeat. “Not my phone.”

“It’s safe,” she says, not meeting my eyes.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her eyes move to the door, then back to me.

I lower my voice. “Marina.”

She looks at me.