Page 24 of Marrying the Savage

He’s handsome in a polished, obvious way. Young. Broad. Smooth-skinned. Dark-eyed beneath the mask. His smile is practiced but not unpleasant, and when he begins to move with the music, every woman in the room loses her mind with admirable teamwork.

I laugh because I can’t help it.

Anya leans close to my ear. “You are welcome.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I contain multitudes.”

The stripper—because there’s no polite way to call him anything else after he has removed his vest with his teeth—moves toward me. The doomed woman. The ceremonial sacrifice in high heels.

The others chant my name like supportive demons.

“Sofia! Sofia! Sofia!”

I point at them. “I will remember this betrayal.”

The stripper offers me his hand.

For one second, I hesitate. Not because I’m shy. I’m not shy. I have been raised by criminals, educated by expensive tutors, and threatened by men who think volume equals authority. It takes more than a shirtless man in a mask to make me faint.

But because somewhere in the back of my mind, Dmitri’s voice says wife like a lock clicking shut.

“You’ll be my wife.”

My stomach twists, and something stubborn rises in me.

Not fear. Not shame.

Defiance.

I take the stripper’s hand.

The girls cheer so loudly I wonder whether the ceiling is properly insured.

He pulls me to my feet, then guides me into the chair placed at the center of the room. The chair is ridiculous. Black velvet. Gold legs. Clearly chosen by someone who believes sin requires furniture.

I sit. I cross one leg over the other. I lift my chin.

The stripper smiles down at me, clearly pleased with the drama of it all.

I smile back. If I’m about to be locked into a marriage I don’t want, then tonight I want to remember that I still have a body that belongs to me. I want to remember that I can want things. Choose things. Reach for something just because I feel like it and not because some man has stamped approval over it.

The music deepens, and he dances closer. The room dissolves into laughter and whistles, but my attention narrows. He puts one hand on the back of my chair and leans in, close enough that I can smell clean skin and cologne. His mouth curves like he knows exactly what the bride wants from him.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe I want a kiss.

Not a proper one. Not something meaningful.

God, definitely not meaningful.

Just one reckless kiss from a stranger before I become someone’s wife. One last stupid, harmless thing that Dmitri can’t own because he will never know about it. One tiny proof that I didn’t go quietly.

The stripper’s face hovers near mine, and the girls are going wild. Anya is laughing so hard she almost spills her drink.