Page 50 of Kidnapped Bride

"Try to kiss me, or make me feel sorry for you." Again her lip quivered and this time she turned and stomped to the door, just as Yakov was strolling in.

He glowered at her, and looked down at the blood on her shirt, but she didn't stop walking.

My own irritation at being injured had caused me to treat her badly right when she wanted to open up and show concern.

This was never going to get through to her and show her I wasn't her enemy.

In fact, if anything I was her only option left.

Her father hadn't done a single thing when we announced the marriage.

Not an attack, not a request for parlay.

And if I was right, he was either planning something bigger, or he was running scared.

And if I knew him, it wasn't the latter.

16

KIRA

I sat across from Nikolai's maid, thumbing through the magazine on the table between us, thankful he'd let me come out of the room to be a part of the household today.

Some strange man was watching over me today, however, not the usual ones.

And Gregg had healed up enough that I hadn't seen him in a few days.

Anya was busy stitching something, though it was a rough start on a scrap of white material, and I couldn’t tell what she was doing.

But it looked like artwork, not sewing.

Every so often she looked up at me and smiled softly, but I always looked away sharply.

I wasn't interested in small talk or hearing why she, too, thought I was being too hard on Nikolai.

Vlad had already given me an earful, which I expected from him because he seemed the most human of all the men who came in and out of this house.

But when Yakov told me to grow up and stop blaming Niko for my "daddy issues" I'd had enough.

"You need anything?" Anya asked, but I shrugged one shoulder and glanced at my cold tea. I hadn't really touched it.

I hated the flavor of ginger, though Anya insisted that it was good for an upset stomach when I refused lunch on account of feeling slightly sick.

I prayed I had just come down with something but the lingering thought that I could be pregnant had lodged in my brain and wouldn't give up.

"I'm fine," I said, turning another page of the magazine without looking at it and pushed the tea a few inches away.

Anya's eyes flicked up but she didn't comment.

She returned to her stitching while I stared blankly at pages I wasn't even seeing.

But since she had bridged the silent gap between us, I couldn’t ignore that she was there, trying to be friendly.

So I sighed and closed the magazine.

"What is that you're making?" I finally asked, nodding at the fabric on the table in front of her. It wasn't a conversation starter so much as something to think about besides the churning in my stomach.

She held it up so I could see. It was a bird, or the beginning of one, stitched in blue thread against the white cloth.