Page 97 of Twisted Prince

Gleb grunts, and suddenly, I can’t make sense of the storm behind his green eyes. God, he really must be pissed about it.

“But it’s just a contract, right?” I push out, my voice rising several octaves and giving me a falsely chipper tone as I try not to cry. Willing myself to keep it under control, I flash a smile. “We can get it annulled as soon as things blow over.”

“Right,” Gleb agrees.

My weak attempt to see if there’s any hope of our marriage being something more than a ploy has completely backfired.

I have my answer, I suppose.

He’s ready for this to be set right once my life is no longer on the line.

“Well, good night,” he says before I can come up with an adequate response.

“Night,” I murmur, watching him turn to stride lithely down the hallway to his room. He never looks back, though I watch until the door closes behind him.

Then I slip silently back into my room with Gabby.

She’s still sleeping soundly, dressed in her adorable pink dress. Digging into the bag Gleb brought in for us, I find a pair of children’s pajamas and pull them out. Taking my time, I slowly change her into a comfier outfit as I consider all that’s happened since I woke up this morning in the hospital.

It hardly feels like all of it could have happened in one day.

No wonder my head is still spinning. Or maybe that’s the concussion combined with the wine I probably shouldn’t have drank. But the doctor didn’t say anything about that, did he?

I shake my head, focusing on the task at hand as I slip Gabby softly beneath the covers. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, I leave her sleeping soundly and go back to the bag to dig out a pair of pajamas for myself. Then I slip from the room, turning off the light as I go so I can change and clean off my makeup in the guest bathroom.

Setting down my clothes on the counter, I turn my attention to the mirror and slowly work the bobby pins out of my hair that Silvia so carefully styled. It really is nice to be near her and Pyotr again.

Even if I’m all sorts of confused about this fake-yet-temporarily-very-real marriage, I love them for wanting me to be safe. For caring enough to take the whole day to help me, to support me, to welcome me home, to get to know my daughter, and to be willing to love her simply because she’s a part of me.

It fills me with an intense sense of appreciation and belonging to have received the homecoming I have. And when my thoughts turn to Gleb, that same overwhelming gratitude applies to him too—more so, really. Because he’s done more for me than anyone should ever be asked to do.

I don’t deserve him.

I don’t deserve the kindness, the fierce, unrelenting loyalty, the protective concern—the willingness to put his very life on the line for me.

I especially don’t deserve his love after the things I’ve said to him.

How many times have I pushed him away out of fear? Out of my inability to trust?

I’ve lost count.

And even if this last time was justified, even if I did it to save his life, I don’t think Gleb sees it that way. Unfortunately for me, my epiphany might be too little too late.

A wave of self-pity washes through me, and frustration quickly follows.

What the hell am I doing?

If I want Gleb, then it’s never too late. Right?

I need to show him what I want.

I need to tell him how I feel—why I did what I did, why I said what I said.

Butterflies come to life in my stomach at the thought of approaching him.

I bite my lip, willing myself to find the nerve.

I meet my eyes in the mirror. Suck it up, Mel, and grow a spine. He drove all the way to Boston for you. He married you, for Christ’s sake. It’s your turn to go out on a limb here.

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