Page 40 of Marrying the Savage

“The families gathered here have seen Antonov men fire inside a church,” Damir says. “They have seen Sokolov men lose formation. They have seen the bride leave the altar and return with me.”

My face heats so fast I almost feel dizzy.

Several women look away.

Anya, crouched near the third pew with Katya and one of the twins, stares at me like she is already planning to either hug me or strangle me after this.

Possibly both.

My uncle’s voice turns low. “Choose your next words carefully.”

“I always do,” Damir says.

I almost laugh. I don’t, mostly because my life expectancy feels fragile enough without adding poor timing.

Damir continues, “The only way this stops is if Sofia marries me. And you want to make it go away, don’t you?”

The church goes silent. Even the injured men seem to stop breathing.

I turn my head very slowly and stare at Damir. For a moment, all I can see is his profile. The hard line of his jaw. The silver at his temple. The faint smear of blood on one white cuff. His expression gives away nothing, as if he has not just suggested the most insane thing any man has ever said in a building already full of insane men.

“What?” I say. My voice comes out thinner than I want.

Damir looks down at me. His eyes are pale and steady. “You heard me.”

“No, I heard sounds,” I say. “I’m waiting for them to become reasonable.”

A flicker crosses his face. It might be amusement.

If it is, I may actually hit him.

My uncle explodes before I can say anything else. “Absolutely not.” The force of his voice makes several guests flinch. “No niece of mine will marry you,” he says, taking a step forward. “Not today. Not if you put every gun in this church to my head.”

Damir’s body moves half an inch more in front of mine.

Shielding me. Owning the space.

Both things at once.

“You preferred Sokolov,” Damir says.

“I preferred order.”

“You preferred a sale.”

My uncle’s jaw clenches.

Dmitri steps forward, blood still staining his mouth, humiliation turning his face cruel. His gaze runs over me from veil to ruined hem, then pauses at the mark on my neck again.

His lip curls. “Let him have her,” he says. “She’s already spread her legs for him in a hallway, hasn’t she?”

The words hit me so hard I forget to breathe.

Not because I care what Dmitri thinks of me. I don’t. I truly, deeply don’t. But because the whole church hears him, and for one second I’m not a woman. I am an object being inspected after damage. A bride whose value has been lowered. A thing men can discuss because they were already planning to exchange me anyway.

My uncle says nothing. That hurts more than Dmitri’s words.

Because I look at him, waiting for something. Anger on my behalf. One sharp word. One sign that I am still his niece before I am his political arrangement. But Sergei Antonov only stares at Dmitri with a face like stone, and I see the calculation moving behind his eyes.