Page 138 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Through the glass doors, Kirill is still watching us.
Beside him, Dmitri looks at my hand in Yaromir’s.
For the first time, I understand that this is bigger than revenge.
This is war.
23
YAROMIR
The drive home is silent.
Not empty. Silent.
Anya sits beside me with the emeralds at her throat, her red dress still perfect to anyone who doesn’t know what happened in the side room. Her hair is pinned back badly now, a few loose strands brushing her neck. Her mouth is swollen from mine. Her cheeks are pale from the confrontation in the lobby.
She doesn’t ask if I’m all right.
Good. I wouldn’t answer.
Outside the window, the city slides by in cold light and rain. I barely see it. I see my father’s face instead.
Bastard.
The word is old. It shouldn’t matter anymore, but it does.
Not because it’s untrue. Because he says it like he has not spent my whole life making sure I understood it.
When we reach the estate, I step out first and offer Anya my hand. She takes it without hesitation. That shouldn’t matter either.
It does.
Inside, the house is quiet. The staff knows better than to appear unless called. Viktor remains near the entrance, waiting for orders, but I dismiss him with a look. He leaves without a word.
Anya removes her gloves slowly.
I look at the emeralds around her neck. I bought them to hurt Dmitri. That was true when the gavel fell. Now I’m not sure the reason matters.
They belong on her.
The thought irritates me because it sounds too close to sentiment.
“Go upstairs,” I say.
She looks at me. “No.”
I turn toward her. She stands in the center of the hall in that torn-open version of elegance, red silk, diamonds, flushed skin, and anger she hasn’t fully learned how to hide.
“No?” I ask.
“No.”
“You’re tired.”
“So are you.”
“I have work.”
