19. Anya #3
“No.” My voice rises. “You need to leave.”
He moves toward me. “You always did this. You ran before you understood anything.”
“I understood enough.”
“You understood what you wanted to understand.” His face tightens. “You think you’re special to him? You think he won’t get bored once the insult fades?”
“Stop.”
“He will use you. He uses everyone.”
“I said stop.”
He reaches for me again. This time, I slap his hand away.
His eyes darken. “Don’t embarrass me again,” he says. The words are quiet, but they scare me more than if he had shouted.
Then the bathroom door opens. Not gently. The lock gives with one hard crack, and the door swings inward.
Yaromir stands in the doorway.
For one second, nobody moves.
His eyes go first to Dmitri. Then to me.
Then to Dmitri’s hand, still half-raised toward me.
The change in him is immediate. Quiet. Terrifying.
“Yaromir,” Dmitri starts.
Yaromir crosses the room and hits him. His fist connects with Dmitri’s face so hard Dmitri staggers back into the wall. I scream, more from shock than fear, but Yaromir doesn’t stop. He grabs Dmitri by the front of his tuxedo and drives him back against the marble.
Dmitri swings once.
Yaromir blocks it and hits him again.
And again.
The sounds are brutal in the small room. Flesh. Bone. Dmitri’s choked curse.
“Stop,” I say.
Yaromir doesn’t hear me.
Or he does and cannot obey yet.
Dmitri drops to one knee, blood at his mouth. Yaromir hauls him up again and slams him against the sink.
“You follow her into a locked room?” Yaromir says. His voice is low.
Dmitri coughs, trying to laugh and failing. “She’s not yours.”
Yaromir hits him again.
This time I scream his name. “Yaromir!”
He stops.
His shoulders rise and fall once. His knuckles are split. Blood stains his hand, some his, some Dmitri’s. His face is hard in a way I have never seen before, even from him.
Dmitri slumps against the sink, breathing hard, one hand pressed to his mouth.
Yaromir leans close to him. “If you look at her too long, I will notice. If you speak to her without permission, I will notice. If you touch her again, I will remove the hand.”
Dmitri says nothing. For once.
Yaromir releases him, and Dmitri nearly falls, catching himself on the counter.
Dmitri’s eyes flick to me. There’s anger there. Humiliation. Something ugly and wounded. But he doesn’t move toward me.
“Clean yourself up,” Yaromir says to Dmitri. “Then leave before I change my mind.”
He walks out.
I stand frozen for one second.
Then I follow him.
The corridor outside is empty except for Viktor near the end, facing away, making sure it stays that way. He glances once at Yaromir’s hands, then at me, then looks forward again.
Yaromir keeps walking.
“Wait,” I say.
He doesn’t stop.
“Yaromir.”
This time, he stops. His back is to me.
I walk around him and stand in front of him.
His hands are at his sides, blood dark across his knuckles and fingers. His jaw is tight. He doesn’t look at me at first. He looks past me, as if he’s still holding something inside himself by force.
I reach for his hand.
He pulls it back. “Don’t.”
I look up at him. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not all mine.”
“I can see that.”
His mouth tightens.
There’s a small side room near the corridor, probably used by staff. I push the door open and step inside. “Come here.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
“Anya.”
“Come here,” I repeat.
For a moment, I think he will refuse.
Then he follows.
The room is narrow, with a sink, folded linen, and cleaning supplies hidden behind a cabinet. I turn on the tap and take a clean cloth from the shelf.
Yaromir stands too close behind me, silent and tense.
I wet the cloth and face him. “Give me your hand.”
He looks at me.
“Now,” I say.
Something moves in his eyes.
Then he gives it to me.
His hand is large and warm, the knuckles bruised and split. Blood is smeared over his fingers, dried near the edges, fresh over the cuts. I clean carefully, trying not to think about Dmitri’s face or the sound of his body hitting the marble.
Yaromir watches me the entire time. I feel his gaze more than I see it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“No, you didn’t.”
His voice drops. “He followed you into a locked room.”
My fingers pause. “He scared me,” I admit. The words come out before I can stop them.
Yaromir goes very still.
I look down and keep cleaning. “I hated that,” I say. “I hated that he could still do that.”
His hand flexes once in mine. “Not again.”
I glance up.
He’s looking at me now. Really looking at me. The anger is still there, but under it is something harsher. Something almost shaken.
“Yaromir.”
He steps closer.
I don’t move back.
His clean hand lifts to my face, but he stops before touching me. Like he’s afraid there’s still blood on him. Like he doesn’t want any part of that violence transferred to my skin.
For some reason, that’s what almost breaks me.
I take his wrist and bring his hand to my jaw myself. His thumb rests there, firm and careful.
“Nobody touches my wife,” he murmurs.
The words move through me like heat.