Page 179 of Marrying the Savage

“I said no.”

Her eyes hold mine, and there’s a warning in them.

Not now.

I understand. I hate it, but I understand.

Before I can answer, a woman steps between two of Arman’s men and walks toward us.

Anya. I recognize her from the file. She’s Sofia’s oldest friend. She looks angry, worried, and far less afraid than she should be in a room full of my men. Her attention goes to Sofia first, quick and assessing, checking her face, her throat, her hands, the way she’s standing.

Then she looks at me. “I’m Anya,” she says.

“I know.”

“Good. Then we can skip introductions.”

Mikhail shifts behind me.

Anya notices but keeps her eyes on mine. “I brought her here,” she says.

Sofia’s face tightens.

I turn fully toward Anya. “What?”

“My men got her to me,” she says. “I thought she was in trouble.”

She’s lying. Why, though, I don’t understand.

Sofia glances at Anya. One quick look.

Enough.

They are protecting each other.

I should care. I will care later. Right now, Sofia is ten feet from me, alive, shaken. But all of that doesn’t matter. She’s okay.

Three days of not knowing where she was have left me with very little patience for anything except the fact that she’s standing in front of me.

I let the lie remain in the room.

“For three days,” I say.

Anya’s jaw tightens. “She needed somewhere to be.”

“She has a home.”

“She needed somewhere to be,” Anya repeats.

Sofia says, “Anya.” The warning is quiet.

Anya stops, but she doesn’t look sorry.

Arman steps forward then. I’ve never met the man in person, but I know everybody in the city and their business. He is calm, but not careless. His eyes move once to Sofia, then to me. He knows exactly what kind of room he’s standing in now.

“Volodin,” he says.

“Chekonov.”