Page 36 of Savage Vows
9
ADRIANA
They don’t lookat me when they walk me back to my room.
Three of them. All aunts. All Volkova women.
One gathers the sheets. The other adjusts the robe around my shoulders, tighter than I need it. The third hovers with a plastic smile, as if that makes any of this normal.
They don’t speak about what just happened. They don’t have to. The bed behind me has already been stripped.
“Well,” one says, finally. Her voice is amused. “At least you did your duty.”
Another snorts. “I thought she’d cry. The quiet ones always do.”
I say nothing. I don’t give them what they want. Because I did this.
I knew I was playing a dangerous game. I don’t know what possessed me to put that thing on.
The baby doll is still draped over the back of a chair. Thin straps, lace at the hem, a color that looked innocent when I pulled it from the bed but didn’t feel innocent at all once I put it on.
Maybe I just meant to taunt him. Maybe I wanted a reaction out of him, the way this whole marriage was meant to humiliate me.
I thought it would give me control. Or the illusion of it.
But once he looked at me, it didn’t feel like a taunt anymore.
I’ve never been the kind of girl men want. Not in the way Julianne was. They noticed her in every room, offered to carry her bags, brought her drinks she didn’t ask for. She barely had to try. I always tried too hard. Or not at all.
I’m not beautiful. I’ve always known that.
But when he looked at me, I felt like I was. Not pretty, not delicate. Just seen. Like I couldn’t hide.
And for one stupid second, I wanted to be seen like that again.
By him.
I don’t know what that says about me.
Now I’m back in this room that isn’t mine, wearing a robe that isn’t mine, replaying every second like it meant something. Maybe it didn’t.
Maybe it was just duty. Maybe he’ll never touch me again.
But I can still feel the way his hands gripped my hips. The way his mouth dragged down my neck like he wanted to mark something permanent.
I started something, and I don’t know how to end it. Because if I meant to push him away, why does part of me hope he comes back?
The room is cold. Not from the temperature, but from the way it’s laid out.
No rugs. No photographs. No flowers or books or anything soft. The walls are bare except for a single painting, dark and abstract, like someone tried to scrub feeling out of it.
The bed is king-sized, but the sheets are military neat, tucked in like someone expects to be judged. The pillows are the kind you buy in bulk. Nothing here was chosen with comfort in mind.
I open the wardrobe. It’s mostly black suits, pressed white shirts, a few ties still in their packaging. There’s one shelf with folded sweaters, gray and navy, not a single warm color among them. It’s all clean, sterile, masculine.
This is his room.
And now it’s mine too.
