17. Anya #2
My anger falters, replaced by something more complicated. Surprise first. Then suspicion. Then a nervous little pull low in my stomach that I refuse to call excitement.
“Where?”
Yaromir is quiet for half a second too long.
“What?” I ask.
“There’s a gala.”
“A gala.”
“And an auction.”
I stare at him. “You’re taking me to an auction?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of auction?”
“Art. Jewelry. Rare books. Some charity attached to it so everyone can pretend they are not laundering influence in evening wear.”
Despite myself, I almost smile. He says it so dryly, like it bores him and disgusts him at the same time.
“Sounds charming,” I say.
“It isn’t.”
“Then why go?”
“Because everyone who matters will be there.”
There it is. The real reason.
My hand tightens against my arm. “Our first public appearance.”
“Yes.”
The words settle between us.
The city will see me again. Not as Dmitri’s runaway bride. As Yaromir’s wife.
A strange pressure builds in my chest. I should be afraid. I am afraid. But beneath it, something stirs, something that remembers the wedding dress, the hallway, Dmitri’s voice saying I would be fine.
Yaromir watches my face. “You understand what that means?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No. You just keep speaking like I’m a child.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Tonight will not be easy.”
The nervousness in my stomach deepens. “Why?”
Again, the pause. Small, but there.
He looks away toward Buran, and I know immediately he’s hiding something.
“No,” I say.
His eyes return to mine.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Answer half the question and expect me to be grateful. What aren’t you saying?”
He studies me for a moment. In the stall, Buran lowers his head and exhales heavily, as if bored by both of us.
Yaromir’s voice changes when he finally answers. It becomes more careful.
“My father will probably attend.”
My fingers go cold. “And Dmitri?” I ask.
Silence. That’s answer enough.
I laugh, but it comes out thin. “Of course.”
“Anya.”
“No, it makes sense.” I look down at my ring, his ring, glittering on my finger. “Why waste a perfectly good marriage if we can’t parade it in front of the man I ran from?”
“That’s not the only reason.”
“But it is a reason.”
“Yes.”
At least he does not lie. That should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
I turn away from him and step closer to Buran’s stall. The horse lifts his head and looks at me with flat suspicion. I almost envy him. He gets to bite people who annoy him.
“What is the name of the gala?” I ask.
“The Sokolov-Morozov Winter Auction.”
I blink. “Sokolov?”
“Not your family.”
“Good,” I mutter.
“It’s held at the old Imperial Exchange building. Formal dress. Press outside, private security inside. Half the guests will be businessmen, politicians, collectors. The other half will be criminals pretending to be the first three.”
“And which half are you?”
He doesn’t dignify my question with an answer.
I look past him toward the open stable door. The estate grounds stretch beyond it, controlled and quiet. Somewhere out there is the gate I’m not allowed to walk through alone. Somewhere beyond that is the city where I ran, hid, worked, survived badly.
Tonight, I go back into it wearing diamonds and his name.
My stomach twists. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Stand beside me.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, for now,” he says, which tells me he’s already planning something. For some reason that scares the shit out of me. It can’t mean anything good.
“I need a dress,” I say.
“You will have one.”
“Not something your aunt chooses.”
His expression flattens. “Larisa will choose nothing for you.”
“Good.”
“You will have options sent up within the hour.”
“I want to choose.”
“You will.”
The answer surprises me. I try not to let it show.
Yaromir sees anyway. “Do you want me to choose your dress for you?” He actually looks confused.
“Dmitri used to,” I say, and then regret it immediately when his face hardens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I don’t care,” he says. Something tells me he’s lying. “Do not confuse me with Dmitri.”
“I don’t,” I reply. The words come out quieter than I intend.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then he says, “Good.”
The silence that follows is not comfortable, but it’s not empty either.
I turn back to Buran because I need somewhere else to look.
“He knows how to bite,” Yaromir says.
“So do I.”
“I noticed.”
My face heats before I can stop it.
He’s thinking of last night. So am I.
I hate him for making me remember it in a stable, in daylight, when I’m supposed to be discussing public humiliation and formal gowns.
I clear my throat. “What if I don’t want to go tonight?”
“Then you don’t go.”
I look at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“I need to know something first,” I say.
“What?”
“Will you warn me next time before you throw me into a room full of people who hate me?”
A beat.
Then he nods once. “Yes.”
Not a grand apology. Not even an apology at all. But with Yaromir, a promise feels heavier than most men’s regret.
I look toward the estate. “Then I want a dress that makes anyone who looks at me choke.”
This time, his mouth does curve.
Only slightly.
Only for a second.
But I see it.
“That,” he says, “can be arranged.”