Page 196 of Marrying the Savage

“No,” Irina says, though softer now. “You all like her because she says things and makes Damir act human for five minutes, but none of you are asking what happens if this was a game to her.”

“It was not a game.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Irina.”

“No, listen to me. She probably had something to do with Dmitri showing up at that shopping gallery, whether you want to say it aloud or not. She ran during the fight. Now Damir brings her back like she’s the wounded party in all of it.”

Kirill says, “Irina has a point.”

Grigori turns on him. I can hear it in his voice. “You too?”

“I’m not saying she deserved anything. I’m saying we need the truth. Damir is not thinking clearly with her. He hasn’t been thinking clearly since the church. And after all, she’s an Antonov, so how much can we really trust her?”

The words go straight under my ribs.

Because they’re not entirely wrong.

I did invite Dmitri. I did run. I did hide at Arman’s club while Damir searched for me. I let Anya lie. I let Arman take the blame for part of the truth. I let Marina apologize to me when she had done nothing wrong.

I can tell myself I was trapped.

I can tell myself I was frightened.

Both are true. They are not the whole truth.

I also wanted control so badly that I created a disaster and then stood in the wreckage pretending I had only been dragged there.

Irina speaks again, quieter now. “Damir is dangerous when he grieves. We have all seen it. I don’t want to watch him become that again because of a woman he barely knows.”

“He knows her,” Grigori says.

“Does he? Or does he want to save her because he could not save Elena?”

That silence is worse than the words.

I step back before I hear anything else. I turn and walk the rest of the way to my room without looking back.

Inside, I close the door carefully. I don’t slam it. I don’t lean against it and slide down like a girl in a bad film. I walk to the wardrobe, open it, and stare at the clothes Damir bought me.

I pick a cream blouse with a high collar and a long dark skirt. My hands move slower than usual. I change without looking too long in the mirror. When I finally do look, I barely recognize myself. I look composed. Pale, but composed. The marks on my neck are hidden unless someone knows to look.

I know to look. So does Damir.

There is a knock.

I turn. “Come in.”

Damir enters without his jacket, phone in hand. “What happened?”

I hate him for seeing it so quickly.

“Nothing.”

“Sofia.”

“I changed.”