Yaromir doesn’t move. The fire cracks behind him.
“No,” he says.
I blink. “No?”
“Not like this.”
My anger flares. “You said I had a choice.”
“You do.”
“Then I’m choosing.”
“You’re reacting.”
“Maybe I’m tired of men deciding what my choices mean.”
For the first time, I see him pause.
Good.
I step closer, even though my body still remembers what happens when I get too near him. My pulse is racing, but I don’t stop.
“You want me to stand behind the answer?” I ask. “Fine. I will.”
His gaze stays on me.
I lift my chin. “I’m saying yes because my father is a selfish coward, but I don’t want him dead. I’m saying yes because Dmitri humiliated me and I want him to feel it. I’m saying yes because I’m tired of running from men who think I’m easy to corner.” My voice shakes once. I force it steady. “And I’m saying yes because when you touched me, I wanted it. I hate that, but I won’t lie about it.”
The room goes silent.
Yaromir’s face changes. Not much, but enough. His eyes darken, and for one brief moment, the control slips just far enough for me to see the hunger underneath.
It scares me.
It thrills me.
I don’t look away.
“There,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Is that clear enough for you?”
He walks toward me. Slowly. This time, I don’t step back.
He stops close enough that I can feel the heat of him again, but he doesn’t touch me. “Say it properly,” he says.
My heart pounds. I know what he means. I hate that my body knows too.
I hold his gaze. “Yes, Yaromir,” I say. “I’ll marry you.”
For a second, nothing happens.
Then his hand lifts and closes gently around my chin. He tilts my face up, studying me like he’s committing the moment to memory. “You understand what this makes you?”
I swallow. “Your wife.”
His thumb brushes once along my lower lip.
My breath catches.