I look back at Yaromir. “You’ll tell me what she says?”
“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation.
I don’t know if I believe him. But I want to.
That’s new enough to scare me.
“Fine,” I say.
His hand lowers.
I step back, feeling every ache in my body as I move. Larisa’s eyes follow me. I don’t look down. I will not shuffle away like something ashamed.
At the bottom of the stairs, I pause and turn.
Yaromir is still facing me. Larisa stands behind him, rigid with displeasure. The dying fire glows faintly from the drawing room behind them. On the floor, I can see the edge of the ruined red silk. And I realize, I don’t care what the old hag thinks, so long as my husband is on my side.
Upstairs, I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a second, breathing hard.
My whole body aches. My thighs. My hips. My back. Places I didn’t know could ache. Every step up the stairs reminded me of him, of the rug, of the fire, of his hands gripping my waist while he moved inside me.
My face burns. I hate that the memory makes me hot even now.
I go into the bathroom and turn the shower on. The room fills slowly with steam. I strip out of Yaromir’s shirt and let it fall to the floor. For a second, I stand naked in front of the mirror and look at myself.
My hair is tangled. My lips are swollen. There are faint marks on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. My nipples are still sensitive, darker from his mouth. Between my legs, I’m sore and tender and still aware of him in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I look ruined.
I look alive.
I step into the shower. Hot water hits my skin, and I close my eyes. For a moment, I let it run over me, down my shoulders, over my breasts, between my thighs. I press one hand to the wall and breathe through the heat.
I should be thinking about Larisa.
Instead, I think about Yaromir downstairs. His voice when he told me to go.
My throat tightens.
Then the bathroom door opens, and I turn quickly.
Through the steam, I see him. Yaromir stands in the doorway, half-dressed, shirt open, trousers low on his hips. His face is hard, but not with the coldness from before. Something rougher. Angrier. He closes the door behind him.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I’ve handled it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer that matters.”
He walks closer. Steam curls around him. His eyes move over my face first, then lower. Down my wet shoulders, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t touch me.
“Did she say something else about me?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What?”