Page 83 of Marrying the Savage

“So I heard.”

Grigori looks at the little battlefield on the rug, then at me. His smile remains, but his eyes sharpen with the same Volodin awareness I am beginning to recognize. Friendlier than Damir, yes. Easier. Warmer.

Still dangerous.

“I hope he didn’t trouble you,” he says.

“No. I liked him.” That comes out too honest. So I add, “He’s currently my favorite Volodin.”

“Wise. He is the least likely to shoot anyone.”

“Currently?”

“He’s young. We have hopes.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

Grigori’s grin widens.

I stand, smoothing my dress. The ridiculous ring bumps against my finger, and his gaze drops to it briefly.

There it is again. That quick flicker men keep failing to hide when they see it.

“You all stare at this ring like it’s going to explode,” I say.

Grigori looks back at my face. “In this family, it might.”

“What does that mean?”

“This ring belonged to his father, and his father before him. Women don’t exactly prefer this fashion. But, well, Damir is dramatic.”

“I gathered that when he interrupted my wedding with armed men,” I reply, though I don’t see what’s dramatic about giving me the ring.

“He does like an entrance.”

“He shot Dmitri.”

“Also an exit strategy.”

I stare at him. Grigori gives me an innocent look that fools absolutely no one.

I like him.

Damn it. This house is becoming a problem.

“You seem very casual about all this,” I say.

“About what?”

“Your cousin kidnapping a bride, marrying her under gunfire, bringing her home, and apparently ordering a piano because mentioned the word once.”

Grigori laughs again, louder this time. “He ordered a piano?”

“And knitting supplies.”

His eyes brighten. “Oh, I like you.”

“I’m not taking responsibility for his insanity.”