Page 25 of Marrying the Savage

“Do it!” one of the twins shouts.

I almost do.

Then he turns his head slightly, and the gold light catches the angle of his cheek. Something in my mind changes his face.

Dark hair threaded with silver. A harder mouth. Winter-gray eyes.

Black leather sliding off long fingers.

Damir.

My whole body stills.

The room continues around me, bright and loud and delighted, but for one strange second, I’m not in the club anymore. I’m back in the restaurant, feeling his gaze pass over me like a slow blade. I’m in my bed, biting back a sound with his name burning behind my teeth. I’m standing in front of an envelope, writing Mr. Damir Volodin with a pulse fluttering for a woman doing something harmless.

The stripper leans in a fraction more. I turn my face away, and his mouth lands near my cheek instead of my lips.

The room erupts in teasing shrieks.

“Oh my God,” Katya gasps. “She’s loyal.”

I blink. “What?”

Mila presses both hands to her chest. “That is so cute.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is,” one of the twins says. “You couldn’t even kiss him. You love Dmitri too much.”

I stare at her.

For a second, I actually consider explaining. I consider saying that I didn’t turn away because of Dmitri. I turned away because my mind, with spectacular cruelty, replaced a perfectly available shirtless man with Damir Volodin, a man who could probably ruin my uncle before breakfast.

I consider saying I don’t love Dmitri.

I consider saying I would rather chew glass than kiss Dmitri with the enthusiasm these women are currently assigning to me.

Instead, I start laughing. Not because it’s funny, but because if I don’t laugh, something much uglier will come out.

Anya watches me from the sofa. She’s not laughing now.

She knows.

Maybe not the Damir part. Please God, not the Damir part. But she knows enough to understand that loyalty has nothing to do with the way I turned my head.

The stripper, professional and merciful, moves back with a grin and continues the routine as if my near miss is part of the show. I give him a generous smile because he has done nothing wrong except briefly possess cheekbones my imagination could vandalize.

The girls keep teasing me.

“Our Sofia is secretly romantic.”

“She acts tough, but look at her.”

“Dmitri is lucky.”

“He must be so proud.”

I drink champagne while they talk. I smile. I let them have the little story because it’s easier than correcting them. They want to believe in reluctant love, in a sharp-tongued bride secretly soft for her groom, in a wedding that means something better than alliance and control. They want the fairy tale because the alternative is sitting in this room with me and admitting that, in two days, I will stand in front of God and men with guns and give myself to someone I don’t want.