24. Anya
ANYA
I wake because Yaromir moves.
At first, I don’t understand where I am. There’s heat against my cheek, something hard beneath my palm, and the faint smell of smoke in the air. My body aches everywhere, deep and unfamiliar, the kind of ache that makes memory return before thought does.
The fire. The rug.
His hands. His mouth.
My face heats before my eyes are fully open.
Then I hear it. A door closing somewhere outside the room.
Yaromir is already awake. Completely awake. His body goes still beneath me in a way that makes my own heart start beating faster.
“What is it?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer immediately. He listens. That frightens me more than the noise.
I lift my head from his chest and realize, all at once, what we must look like.
I’m half draped over him on the rug in front of the fireplace.
My dress is destroyed somewhere near the table.
My hair is loose and tangled. The emerald necklace is still lying on the table where he put it before everything happened.
And I’m naked except for his shirt, which is open and barely covering me.
Oh God.
I sit up too quickly and wince.
Yaromir’s eyes move to my face at once. “Careful.”
“Someone is here.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
His jaw tightens. “Larisa.”
Of course. Of course it’s her.
Before I can move, he reaches for his shirt and pulls it properly around my shoulders. It’s already half on me, but he buttons it quickly, one button after another, his fingers steady while mine feel useless.
I stare at him. He’s completely calm.
Or he looks calm. That’s different.
He gets to his feet and reaches for his trousers. I look away, then immediately feel ridiculous because after last night, looking away is almost insulting.
Still, I do. My cheeks burn.
He notices, because of course he does, but he says nothing. He only finishes dressing enough to be decent, then crouches in front of me. “Can you stand?”
“Yes.” The lie is automatic.
I try. My legs disagree.
Yaromir catches me before I can embarrass myself completely. One arm comes around my waist, firm and careful. I hate how much I need the help. I hate more that my body remembers why.
“I said careful,” he says.
“I heard you.”
“You rarely obey.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
His mouth almost moves. Almost.
Then his face closes again as another sound comes from the hall. A cane striking marble.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Larisa.
The name alone makes me want to pull the shirt tighter around myself.
Yaromir looks toward the door. “Stay here.”
“No.”
His eyes return to mine.
I don’t know where I find the nerve. Maybe from exhaustion. Maybe from the fact that I have already been exposed in every possible way since I entered this house. Maybe because I’m tired of being sent away whenever the real conversations begin.
Something in his face shifts.
Not approval exactly. But close.
He looks down at the shirt on me, then reaches for the throw draped over the back of the armchair. He wraps it around my shoulders, covering my bare legs as much as possible.
“You stay beside me,” he says.
“I was planning to.”
We step into the hall together.
Larisa stands near the entrance of the drawing room, one hand on her cane, dressed in dark gray as if she has been awake for hours. Maybe she has. Maybe women like her do not sleep. Maybe they just wait in corners for the world to become disappointing.
Her eyes move over us.
First Yaromir. Then me.
She takes in his unbuttoned collar, the split knuckles, my bare feet, my ruined hair, his shirt around my body, the throw clutched at my chest.
She knows. Only a fool wouldn’t, and Larisa isn’t one.
Her gaze drops lower for a second, to the floor inside the drawing room. To the torn red dress visible near the table. To the rug in front of the dying fire. When she looks back at me, disgust flickers across her face. Like I’m something cheap that has been left in the wrong room.
My stomach tightens.
Yaromir sees it before I can hide it.
His voice is flat. “Why are you here?”
Larisa doesn’t look away from me. “I could ask the same of your wife. Though the answer appears obvious.”
Heat rushes to my face. I tighten the throw around myself.
Yaromir steps slightly in front of me.
I should resent that. I don’t.
“Look at me when you speak,” he says.
Larisa’s eyes shift to him slowly. “Do not use that tone with me.”
“Don’t look at my wife like that.”
Larisa’s mouth tightens. “You slept in the drawing room.”
“We slept where we wanted.”
“You could have been discovered.”
Yaromir’s expression doesn’t change. “It’s a good thing you saw us then.”
The words are calm. There’s no embarrassment in him. No apology. No attempt to explain away the torn dress, the rug, the evidence of what happened between us. He says it like he would have let the whole house walk through and still not lower his eyes.
Larisa’s fingers tighten around the top of her cane. “Do you think this is amusing?”
“No.”
“You are careless.”
His voice stays even. “I was in my house with my wife.”
“In the drawing room.”
“Yes.”
“Like an animal.”
My face burns hotter.
Yaromir takes one step toward her. “Choose your next words carefully.”
The hallway goes cold.
Larisa lifts her chin. “You think I’m insulting you?”
“I know you’re insulting her.”
“She’s standing there wearing your shirt after spending the night on a rug.” Larisa’s eyes flick to me again. “If she feels insulted, perhaps she should consider her own conduct.”
My fingers curl into the fabric of the throw. “My conduct?” I say.
Yaromir turns his head slightly.
Not stopping me. Just noticing.
Larisa looks at me with faint surprise, as if she had forgotten I could speak. “Yes,” she says. “Your conduct.”
I lift my chin though my whole body feels exposed under his shirt. “You were the one who insisted I sleep in his room.”
“I didn’t insist you turn the house into a brothel.”
“Enough.”
It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be.
Larisa goes still.
I have seen Yaromir angry. I have seen him violent. I have seen blood on his hands. This is different. This is control being pulled so tight it might cut through the room.
Larisa sees it too. For the first time, she stops speaking.
Yaromir turns back to me. His face softens by almost nothing, but his voice changes. “Go upstairs.”
I stare at him. “No.”
“Anya.”
“I said no.”
His eyes hold mine. “This conversation is not for you.”
“That never seems to stop anyone from making me the subject of it.”
Something flashes across his face. Maybe guilt. Maybe frustration.
Maybe both.
Larisa makes a small sound behind him. “She’s right about one thing.”
Yaromir doesn’t look away from me. “Don’t?—”
I grip the throw tighter. “I don’t want to be sent away.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t send me.”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he might relent. Then his hand rises to my face. He doesn’t touch me at first. His fingers hover near my jaw, close enough that I feel the warmth of him. When he finally brushes his thumb over my cheek, it’s so brief I might imagine it.
“Go upstairs,” he says quietly. “Anya, please.”
I look past him at Larisa. She stands there with her cane and her cold eyes, displeased and watchful, waiting for me to crumble or strike back badly enough to embarrass myself.
I will not give her that.
I look back at Yaromir. “You’ll tell me what she says?”
“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation.
I don’t know if I believe him. But I want to.
That’s new enough to scare me.
“Fine,” I say.
His hand lowers.
I step back, feeling every ache in my body as I move. Larisa’s eyes follow me. I don’t look down. I will not shuffle away like something ashamed.
At the bottom of the stairs, I pause and turn.
Yaromir is still facing me. Larisa stands behind him, rigid with displeasure. The dying fire glows faintly from the drawing room behind them. On the floor, I can see the edge of the ruined red silk. And I realize, I don’t care what the old hag thinks, so long as my husband is on my side.
Upstairs, I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a second, breathing hard.
My whole body aches. My thighs. My hips. My back. Places I didn’t know could ache. Every step up the stairs reminded me of him, of the rug, of the fire, of his hands gripping my waist while he moved inside me.
My face burns. I hate that the memory makes me hot even now.
I go into the bathroom and turn the shower on. The room fills slowly with steam. I strip out of Yaromir’s shirt and let it fall to the floor. For a second, I stand naked in front of the mirror and look at myself.
My hair is tangled. My lips are swollen. There are faint marks on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. My nipples are still sensitive, darker from his mouth. Between my legs, I’m sore and tender and still aware of him in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I look ruined.
I look alive.
I step into the shower. Hot water hits my skin, and I close my eyes. For a moment, I let it run over me, down my shoulders, over my breasts, between my thighs. I press one hand to the wall and breathe through the heat.
I should be thinking about Larisa.
Instead, I think about Yaromir downstairs. His voice when he told me to go.
My throat tightens.
Then the bathroom door opens, and I turn quickly.
Through the steam, I see him. Yaromir stands in the doorway, half-dressed, shirt open, trousers low on his hips. His face is hard, but not with the coldness from before. Something rougher. Angrier. He closes the door behind him.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I’ve handled it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer that matters.”
He walks closer. Steam curls around him. His eyes move over my face first, then lower. Down my wet shoulders, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t touch me.
“Did she say something else about me?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What?”
His gaze comes back to mine. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“I told you to stop treating me like a child,” I say.
“I’m protecting my wife, it’s different,” he counters.
“How?” I ask bewildered.
To that, he says nothing.
“You’re impossible,” I say.
“Yes.”
There’s a pause.