Page 65 of Savage Vows

“You should learn something from someone like Larissa,” the aunt says. “I know that your family hasn’t exactly been doing well for the last couple of years, and I imagine you didn’t have the chance to be at many events like last night.”

“Maksim is a family friend,” I finally say. “It wasn’t my first time.”

“Could have fooled me,” Sergei replies. His wife, who’s sitting next to him, looks uncomfortable. When she sees me looking at her, she gives me a smile that comes out like a grimace.

And suddenly, I see the rest of my life unfolding as it is today. No matter how hard I try to fight it, these people will find ways to humiliate me. That’s all it ever was, trading my sister off for me. I’m doomed.

“Larissa does know how to turn heads. God, I miss that girl. Why did you ever stop seeing her, Dante?” the aunt continues.

She doesn’t wait for him to reply. “And she’s impeccable, always. I always saw her as a Volkov bride. People still talk about the emerald gown she wore to the New Year’s party.”

A ripple of agreement passes around the table. My face heats, the toast on my plate suddenly impossible to swallow. I smooth my skirt, pretending not to notice the weight of their eyes, their smiles too sharp to be kind.

Before I can form a reply, Dante sets down his fork with a decisiveclink. The sound cuts through the chatter like a blade.

“Funny,” he says, voice cool, “I don’t remember Larissa ever being my wife.”

The table goes silent. His father’s eyes narrow, but Dante doesn’t give him the chance to retort. He rises, collects my plate and his in one smooth motion, and jerks his chin toward the terrace doors.

“Come on,” he mutters, not looking at me, not giving anyone else another word.

The scrape of his chair echoes as he walks out, plates in hand. I stare after him, stunned, then push back my own chair to follow. The air in the room feels less like family and more like a firing squad, but as I step outside behind him, the tension loosens, just a little.

For the first time all morning, I can breathe.

The terrace air is cool against my skin, a relief after the suffocating dining room. Dante sets the plates down on the small iron table, pulls out a chair for me, then sits across from me in silence.

I take a bite of toast, more to have something to do with my hands than because I’m hungry. The quiet stretches between us, thick but not uncomfortable.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say finally, my voice low.

He doesn’t reply. He just tears a piece of bread, chews slowly, his eyes fixed on the garden beyond. The muscles in his jaw shift, tight, unreadable.

I study him, the broad set of his shoulders, the way his hands curl around his coffee cup like he’s holding back words. I want to ask why he did it, what it means, but something stops me.

So I eat in silence too, the unspoken heavy between us, and try not to wonder if his silence is a shield—for me, or for himself.

The silence stretches, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the faint rustle of leaves in the garden. I sip my coffee, pretending the question hasn’t been turning over in my mind since last night. Finally, I force the words out.

“Would it…would it be possible for me to go out?” My voice is tentative, cautious.

His head turns, eyes narrowing slightly. “Out where?”

Panic flickers in my chest. I hadn’t thought this through.

The first thing that tumbles out is “To my parents.”

His gaze narrows, weighing me like a blade across a scale. My pulse stutters, while his eyes stay on me, unblinking. “You don’t seem particularly close to your family,” he says finally, voice even but edged.

I swallow, shifting under the weight of his stare. “I need to see my little brother,” I say softly. That, at least, is the truth.

Something in his expression flickers—barely there, but I catch it. He leans back in his chair, exhales through his nose. “Fine. I’ll have Oleg take you.”

The words are a victory, small but real, and my pulse jumps. “I was hoping I could go alone,” I try, tentative, pushing the boundary just a little.

His mouth curves—sharp, humorless. “Not happening.”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from pushing further.Okay,I think.Baby steps.