Page 87 of Marrying the Savage

“Your house has terrible privacy.”

“My house has excellent security.”

“Same horror, different branding.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then to my neck. The bite mark is still there, though fainter now. I know because I checked it in the mirror this morning like an idiot.

His attention lingers, and my skin heats beneath it.

“What did he tell you?” Damir asks.

“Nothing.”

“Grigori is smarter than he looks.”

“He looks fairly smart.”

“He will be pleased.”

“He also told me some doors are locked for a reason.”

Damir’s eyes return to mine. “And yet here you are.”

“Yes,” I say. “Apparently I have a complicated relationship with doors.”

His mouth almost curves. Then his gaze shifts to the photograph on the desk, and the room cools again.

“You want to ask about Elena,” he says.

I swallow. There’s no point lying. Not to him. He can probably hear my thoughts forming and judge them for structure. But then I have another thought. Elena, so that’s her name.

“Yes.”

“No.”

The answer is immediate.

My anger flares. “You don’t even know the question.”

“I know enough.”

“That is very convenient for you.”

His hand on the wall flexes once. “Some stories are not yours.”

“I became your wife yesterday.”

“That doesn’t make you entitled to every corpse in this house.”

The words hit hard, and I flinch before I can stop myself. Something in his face changes, but I’m too angry to care.

“No,” I say quietly. “Apparently being your wife only entitles me to guards, rules, surveillance, and a ring tied to my finger with string.”

His eyes sharpen.

I keep going because self-preservation has left the building. “You want me here. You want my name, my cooperation, my obedience when it suits you, but I’m not allowed to know whether the man I married actually killed the wife before me?”

Silence. The question sits between us like a lit match.