Page 50 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
My name in his voice makes my stomach tighten.
Sergei turns toward me. He looks almost relieved now. Like the worst part is over because he has delivered me to the correct room.
“Daughter,” he says quietly. “Meet your future husband.”
10
YAROMIR
Anya goes still.
This is the kind of stillness that comes when the body can’t decide whether to run or strike first.
Her eyes move from Sergei to me, then back again, as if she’s waiting for one of us to laugh and make this something other than what it is. She looks exhausted. Pale. Her hair is pulled back badly, loose pieces falling around her face. There are shadows under her eyes and bruises near her wrist that someone should answer for.
Sergei, most likely.
My gaze stays there a second too long.
Her hand curls into a fist at her side.
Good. Anger is better than fear.
“No,” she says.
Sergei’s jaw tightens. “Anya?—”
“No,” she repeats. “What did you do?”
Sergei takes half a step toward her, and she moves back immediately. The reaction is small, but I catch it. So does he.
It makes me want to break his hand.
“You should be grateful,” Sergei says. “Yaromir, I mean Mr. Volkov, is helping us.”
Anya gives a short, stunned laugh. There’s no humor in it. “Helping us?” Her voice nearly cracks on the words, but she catches it. She lifts her chin like pride is the only thing holding her upright. “You dragged me out of a hotel room and brought me here without telling me anything.”
“I told you enough.”
“You told me you were in trouble.”
“I am.”
“And now I know your solution is selling me again.”
Sergei flinches, but only because she says it in front of me. Not because it’s untrue.
I set my glass down. “Leave us,” I say.
Sergei turns toward me quickly. “Sir, she is upset. I should?—”
“You should leave.”
The room goes quiet. He looks at me, then at her, calculating whether he has permission to argue.
He does not.
“Of course,” he says finally.
