Page 8 of Marrying the Savage

Dmitri squares his shoulders. “Perhaps we will send one.”

“You will do no such thing,” my uncle says. There’s no room for discussion in his tone, which immediately makes the idea more interesting.

I look at him, then at Dmitri, then at the invitation still in Dmitri’s hand.

Until that moment, inviting Damir Volodin to my wedding was not even a thought. It’s absurd. Dangerous. The kind of thing a person might joke about seconds before being removed from a family will.

But the way my uncle reacts changes everything.

He does not simply dislike the idea. He fears it. Or perhaps he fears what Damir’s presence would mean: humiliation for Dmitri, a public crack in their precious alliance, proof that the Antonovs and Sokolovs can’t control every room they enter.

I glance at Damir again. He’s already turning away, his men falling into step behind him. The restaurant seems to remember how to breathe only after he disappears through the entrance, leaving behind silence, tension, and the faint trace of expensive cologne I have no business noticing.

Dmitri sits first, his anger poorly hidden behind a sip of wine. “Arrogant fossil.”

My uncle remains standing for another moment, watching the doorway. “Don’t provoke him again.”

Dmitri scoffs. “You think I’m afraid of Volodin?”

“I think men who are not afraid don’t need to ask that question.”

I look down at my plate quickly, but not quickly enough to hide my smile.

Dmitri notices. Of course he does. His eyes narrow. “Something amusing?”

“No,” I say, picking up my spoon. “I’m grieving the mousse. It was very young.”

My uncle sits down slowly, and the look he gives me could wilt flowers.

Dmitri closes the wedding folder with unnecessary force. “He won’t come near the church.”

“Good,” my uncle says.

That single word stays with me.

Good.

Not because Damir is unimportant, but because Damir matters too much.

The conversation eventually resumes, but it no longer has the same rhythm. Dmitri is still angry. My uncle is still tense. The wedding folder sits near my elbow now, its gold initials catching the light whenever someone moves.

D & S.

Dmitri and Sofia.

Dmitri and Sofia Sokolov.

The sight makes my stomach twist. In fourteen days, they expect me to walk down an aisle and become a symbol of peace between men who have never cared whether I wanted peace, marriage, or any of the life they are arranging around me.

They want me obedient. They want me beautiful.

They want me useful.

My gaze drifts to the sample invitation peeking from the folder, and slowly, carefully, a thought begins to form.

It’s not a noble thought. It’s not even a smart one. It’s petty, childish, reckless, and probably dangerous enough to get me locked in my room until the wedding.

But it makes me feel awake.