Page 31 of Savage Vows
His mother meets us in the doorway with a soft smile and guides me in with a touch to my arm.
A few Volkov relatives have gathered. Two uncles and a cousin, a woman whose perfume arrives a second before she does. Dante’s father sits near the hearth, chair angled so he can see the room without turning his head.
“Adriana,” his mother says, “this is Viktor and Pavel.” She gestures to the uncles. “And Irina.”
“Welcome,” Irina says, studying me as if I might crack.
I take the seat nearest the tea. “Thank you.”
Viktor tips his cup at me. “Different bride than expected. Strange day for all of us.”
“Strange days happen,” I say. “We still have to stand up in them.”
Pavel gives a short laugh. “You speak like someone who learned fast.”
“I had to.”
Dante’s father watches me with that measuring look I’m starting to recognize. He sets his cup down with care. “Your family did not prepare you well,” he says. “Petrovs have always preferred appearances to substance. Your father most of all.”
The room goes very quiet. I feel Dante go still beside me. His mother’s hand lifts a fraction, as if she might reach for my shoulder, then settles back into her lap.
I keep my voice even. “My father has many faults. I will not argue that.”
A smile touches the corner of the old man’s mouth, pleased with what he thinks is compliance.
I take the cup his wife poured me and add a wedge of lemon. “But appearances are useful only when there is power behind them. Both families know this.”
Viktor shifts in his chair. Irina’s chin lifts a degree. No one looks at Dante’s father, but I can feel the attention move toward him all the same.
He leans back. “Do not mistake our patience for softness.”
“I would not,” I say. “And I would not mistake my silence for agreement either.”
Pavel clears his throat. “She has a point, Sergei.”
So that is his name. Sergei Volkov.
He studies me again. “What do you call agreement then?”
“Standing where you put me,” I say, “but not mistaking it for compliance.”
A small sound from Irina, surprise or approval. Liam appears in the doorway, hears the tone, and slides in against the molding like a man ready to fetch a fire extinguisher.
Sergei lifts his cup again. “Your father would have argued.”
“My father enjoys the sound of his own voice.” I meet his eyes. “I prefer results.”
The tea is good. Hot, with just enough lemon to cut the sweetness of the cake I’ve been working on for the last five minutes.
“In our family,” he says, “it’s important the bride and groom…spend time together, right away.” He lifts his cup, like it’s nothing more than a toast.
Irina nods, smiling in that polite, hostess way. “It’s tradition. Brings…peace.”
I take another bite of cake, barely listening. My eyes drift to the fire, the low murmur of voices almost comforting. “I’m sorry,” I say after a beat. “I didn’t follow all of that. We’re together.”
Dante leans in, his voice low, almost amused. “They’re talking about us. Tonight, the marriage has to be consummated.”
I blink at him, chew once, twice—then it hits me.
