Page 183 of Marrying the Savage

There are things that become weaker when spoken too early, and whatever this is has already survived too much violence to be handled carelessly.

Her hand remains at the back of my neck. Mine remains at her waist.

For once, she doesn’t move away first.

“You can’t do that every time I ignore you,” she says, but her voice is low and not steady enough to make the words convincing.

“No?”

“No.”

“I disagree.”

Her mouth tightens like she wants to be angry, but the shape fails halfway.

Almost a smile. Not quite.

Enough.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“I have been told.”

“By many women, I’m sure.”

“Only one matters right now.”

Her eyes search mine. I don’t look away.

The car turns onto the road toward the house, and the city lights slide over her face again. The red marks on her throat are still there. The exhaustion is still there. The anger too. Nothing has been fixed by a kiss, and I’m not stupid enough to think otherwise.

But her hand is still on me. She’s still in my lap. And when I tighten my arm around her, carefully enough that she can leave if she wants to, she doesn’t.

She looks down first, as if that’s safer. “I still don’t trust you completely,” she says.

“I know, and that’s probably why you chose to hide instead of coming straight back,” I say.

She doesn’t look away. “I was angry.” There’s truth there. She isn’t lying anymore, or even trying to deflect. For a moment, I see her for who she really is.

I answer with the same. “Then I will have to give you fewer reasons.”

She looks back at me. There it is again, that unnamed thing between us, heavier now because neither of us can pretend we missed it.

Mikhail clears his throat from the front seat, very carefully. “We are ten minutes from the house.”

Sofia stiffens slightly, reality returning.

I don’t let my hold tighten. “Thank you,” I say.

Mikhail says nothing else.

Sofia shifts as if she’s finally remembering where we are, who is in the car, and how much dignity she left somewhere between the club and my lap. She starts to move away.

I let her. But before she returns to her seat, I catch her hand.

She looks at our fingers. She sees it, and for the first time since I found her, she doesn’t look away as if my face is another locked door.

Then she slides back into her seat, but she doesn’t pull her hand from mine.