“Of course.” Marina nods so hard that her hair starts to come loose from its bun. “Maybe when Mrs. Kozlov is feeling more up to it.”
“Maybe.” Dmitri’s tone suggests otherwise.
He guides me toward the exit, his hand not leaving my back as he steers me. I turn back to Marina before we leave.
“Thank you for the conversation. It was… enlightening.”
Her eyes widen, and she nods before she wraps her arms around herself again.
We’re halfway to the car before Dmitri speaks again, and he lengthens his stride, so I have to hurry to keep up.
When I match his pace, his eyes flick down to my stride. Just a glance, sharp and measuring, like he’s watching how I move. It’s over in a second, but it leaves me unsettled.
Like he recognized something I didn’t.
“What did you and Marina discuss?”
“Art. The gallery’s collection. Nothing important.”
“Really? She looked rather nervous when I came out.”
“Maybe she’s just not used to talking to the boss’s wife.” I shrug, trying to project indifference.
“Maybe.”
I can feel tension radiating from his body by the way his jaw is set and the controlled anger in his voice. He knows I was asking the wrong questions, and Marina gave me the wrong answers.
“Katya.” He yanks me to a stop by the elbow, his grip iron-hard.
“Yes?”
“In the future, I’d prefer it if you did what I asked. I told you not to speak to anyone.”
“Are you forbidding me from talking to people?”
“I’m asking you to be more careful about who you trust.”
“And who should I trust?”
“Me.” The word comes out flat and final. An order instead of a request.
I yank my arm free and cross my arms over my chest. “What if I don’t want to?”
He goes very still, and the mask slips for a moment. I see something cold and dangerous in his eyes that makes every instinct I have scream danger.
“Then you’d be making a mistake.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact. I’m the only person in this city who cares whether you live or die. Everyone else sees you as either an opportunity or a problem to be solved.” He steps closer.
“Which one am I to you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and that hesitation tells me more than words could. His hands clench and unclench at his sides before he says, “You’re my wife.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer that matters.” He jerks the car door open for me and holds out a hand in a silent request for me to climb in.
