Page 152 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Or he looks calm. That’s different.
He gets to his feet and reaches for his trousers. I look away, then immediately feel ridiculous because after last night, looking away is almost insulting.
Still, I do. My cheeks burn.
He notices, because of course he does, but he says nothing. He only finishes dressing enough to be decent, then crouches in front of me. “Can you stand?”
“Yes.” The lie is automatic.
I try. My legs disagree.
Yaromir catches me before I can embarrass myself completely. One arm comes around my waist, firm and careful. I hate how much I need the help. I hate more that my body remembers why.
“I said careful,” he says.
“I heard you.”
“You rarely obey.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
His mouth almost moves. Almost.
Then his face closes again as another sound comes from the hall. A cane striking marble.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Larisa.
The name alone makes me want to pull the shirt tighter around myself.
Yaromir looks toward the door. “Stay here.”
“No.”
His eyes return to mine.
I don’t know where I find the nerve. Maybe from exhaustion. Maybe from the fact that I have already been exposed in every possible way since I entered this house. Maybe because I’m tired of being sent away whenever the real conversations begin.
Something in his face shifts.
Not approval exactly. But close.
He looks down at the shirt on me, then reaches for the throw draped over the back of the armchair. He wraps it around my shoulders, covering my bare legs as much as possible.
“You stay beside me,” he says.
“I was planning to.”
We step into the hall together.
Larisa stands near the entrance of the drawing room, one hand on her cane, dressed in dark gray as if she has been awake for hours. Maybe she has. Maybe women like her do not sleep. Maybe they just wait in corners for the world to become disappointing.
Her eyes move over us.
