Page 67 of Pretty Little Princess

“For what?” he asks, his tone baffled.

I shrug, offering a sad smile. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for saving me.”

Emotion flits across his face before he quickly smooths his expression once more, and I wonder if it might not have been doubt I saw there.

“If you need anything, I’ll be just outside your door,” he promises. Then, with a slight nod, he departs, closing my door behind him.

He didn’t leave me time to protest, though I hate the thought of anyone having to experience the discomfort of a night on that wood floor. Still, I can’t bring myself to insist he go to his own room.

In truth, knowing he’s out there standing sentinel gives me a sense of security I hadn’t known I needed desperately. But with him there, I can bring myself to turn and face the bed once more.

And just before I turn out the light, my eyes land on the sharp object I stumbled over in my sleep-addled attempt to flee. My nude pumps Pyotr had so casually discarded earlier this evening.

My pulse quickens at the flash of memory that follows. Pyotr’s strong arms holding me tight against his body, my legs wrapped around his waist. A sharp pain quickly follows, accompanied by the hollow ache of rejection.

And then the heavy weight of what happened when I tried to escape.

So many conflicting emotions, and I can’t seem to make sense of any of it. At least not tonight. Flicking off the light, I make my way back to bed in the dark and burrow deep beneath the covers.

Nothing makes sense to me right now. Nothing feels right. But as my exhaustion settles on me once more, like a thick fog, all I know is that Pyotr’s protecting me just on the other side of my bedroom door. And with that thought, I drift to sleep.

22

PYOTR

“We’re going to miss having you around, Silvia,” my mother says, her smile tight and false. She places another bite of egg in her mouth and chews like she has a secret.

“Oh, um, yes. Thank you, Matron Veles, for being such a wonderful host. I’m honored to have been welcomed so graciously into your home,” Silvia says.

Her tone is sincere, though I can tell it took a great deal of effort to come up with a suitable response. Silvia looks pale and drawn this morning, with dark circles under her eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got as little sleep as I did last night.

“You’re all packed?” my mother presses, her tone sickeningly kind. “You didn’t leave anything at the house in the city?”

“No, I have everything,” Silvia confirms.

It’s like nails on a chalkboard, listening to my mother force polite conversation from my betrothed. Even Mila can see something’s off and is unusually quiet as her eyes dart between Silvia and me. She chews her breakfast without giving it a second thought, her attention riveted to the unspoken communication waiting for someone to breathe life into it.

Silvia turns her eyes back to her breakfast and pushes her food around her plate, having hardly taken a bite. After several painfully quiet moments, she sets down her fork. “Actually, I think I’ve forgotten to pack a few of my toiletries,” she says softly. “Do you mind if I…?”

“No, no. By all means, do what you need to do,” Mother says.

“I’m done eating. May I be excused too?” Mila asks, half-rising from her chair.

“Of course,” my mother agrees, her sharp gaze following Silvia’s quickly retreating form exiting the room.

Tossing my napkin over my nearly untouched food, I go to rise as well.

“Not you, Pyotr. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word,” my mother says, her eyes commanding me back to my seat.

Clearing my throat in frustration, I slowly sink into my chair.

Mother waits until we’re alone in the dining room before she turns her eyes on me once again. Intense satisfaction sharpens the planes of her face. A smug smile curls her lip.

“Well done, my son,” she praises, interlacing her fingers as she places her hands on the table.

“For what?” I growl through clenched teeth as I glare at the table.

“For taking the Marchetti girl’s virginity,” she states like it’s such an obvious thing.

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