Page 81 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
My hands curl at my sides.
For a moment, I imagine throwing her out of my house. Aunt or not. Blood or not. The only reason I don’t is because Larisa is not the real problem. She’s only saying aloud what half the family will think by morning.
They will question Anya.
Her purity. Her loyalty. Her worth.
They will use whatever they can.
Larisa taps her cane once against the floor. “If you refuse the ritual, they will say you protected her because there was shame to hide.”
“Let them.”
“You cannot build power and then ignore the stories people tell inside your own walls.”
I hate that she’s right.
I hate even more that she’s enjoying it.
“No one waits outside my door,” I say.
Larisa studies me.
“No servants. No witnesses. No old women whispering in the hall. If there is a sheet, I decide what happens to it.”
“That is not the custom.”
“It is now.”
Her smile thins. “You are very protective of a girl you claim to be using.”
“Leave.”
“Fine,” she says. “Do it your way. But don’t pretend the question goes away because you dislike the method.”
I stand there for a long moment, angry with her, with the family, with myself.
A white sheet.
A stain.
A stupid, brutal custom designed by people who thought a woman’s body was family property.
Larisa assumes Anya is not a virgin and wants the silence of that sheet to become another humiliation. She wants the house to smirk. She wants Dmitri’s discarded bride marked as used, imperfect, lesser.
I shouldn’t care.
I do.
I leave the study and go upstairs.
The hallway outside my bedroom is empty. Good. If anyone had been standing there, I would have had them removed from the house tonight.
There’s light under the door.
She’s awake.
I open it.
