Page 214 of Marrying the Savage

She flinches. The room feels smaller.

My hand moves to my stomach on its own. The baby is still nothing I can feel, but suddenly everyone in this house seems to know about it before I have even figured out how to breathe around the word.

I hear Marina take one step toward me. Then stop.

“I’m going to my room,” I announce.

I don’t expect her to follow me, but she does. She closes the door behind me as I pace the length of my room.

None of this makes any sense. Is Damir really that upset to be a father? Is that why he’s punishing me? Is he really the monster he always claimed to be, and I simply misjudged him before?

“Sofia,” she says, and this time her voice breaks around my name. “Eat a little.”

I turn back. She’s not looking at my face anymore. She’s looking at my stomach, then the bowl, then the door, as if each one is part of a problem she has not been allowed to solve.

I sit. Marina moves quickly, pulling the chair out for me, then stopping herself before she touches my shoulder. She stands beside the table, hands clasped in front of her.

I pick up the spoon. The soup smells good.

I taste nothing.

Marina watches me take one mouthful. Then another. Only then does she breathe properly.

I put the spoon down. “Tell him I ate.”

She looks at the bowl. “You barely ate anything.”

“Tell him,” I repeat.

Her jaw tightens. For the first time since she entered, she looks angry.

“I will tell him,” she says.

She picks up the tray, even though most of the food is still there. At the door, she stops. Her fingers hover near the handle.

“Marina, will you tell me what’s going on?” I say.

“They think you’re a liar,” she says before she slips out.

For half a second, she is my Marina again. Then her eyes move past me, to my stomach, and whatever order she’s carrying comes down between us.

“I’m sorry, madame,” she says.

The door closes. The lock turns.

I stand there staring at it. Then I walk to the tray and throw the cup against the wall. Tea runs down the wallpaper. No one comes.

That is how I know they expected it.

By afternoon, Damir comes.

He doesn’t knock. The door opens, and he steps inside with two guards behind him. They remain in the hall. He closes the door, but I hear the lock stay ready, as if the whole room has been turned into a polite cell.

He looks at the broken cup first. Then at the untouched food. Then at me.

I’m sitting by the window in yesterday’s dress because no one has brought me clothes except what they choose, and I refuse to ask.

“You must eat,” he says.