Page 16 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)
Amongst Family
Pausing before the golden-hued doors, Viktor straightened his caftan.
Almost losing Syra was second worse only to dining with his family.
If he had lost Syra because of his stupid lies, that would have been worse.
But she still – tentatively – liked him, wanted him.
And right now she was safe in her guest room, so he could focus on how unpleasant it was to be home.
Clearing his throat, he gestured for the servants to open the door.
The dining room was paneled and floored in birchwood, its ceiling painted a midnight blue with constellations dotted throughout.
A long, cherrywood table stretched the entire length, though only five places were set – all clustered at the eastern end.
His mother Oksana Viktoryevna stood, sweeping across the room in her sapphire-blue svita to dramatically embrace him. She was tall and slender with her copper-colored hair dressed in a wimple. “Oh, Vitya! You look so tired!”
Viktor dutifully kissed both of her cheeks while his father remained seated, leaning casually back in the dining chair.
His sister Irina, a red-haired woman of twenty-five with a perpetual pout, patted her younger sister’s arm and said, “Anna and I took bets on whether you would die out there, poking around for forbidden magics.”
Viktor offered his blandest smile. How pleasant. He already wished he was back on the road with Syra. She was at least honest with her emotions.
“Come and sit.” Oksana shoved him into a dining chair and then foisted a goblet of cinnamon-spiced wine on him. “You have been on the road so long. I’m sure you haven’t had a proper meal in months.”
“I am used to road fare,” Viktor said politely.
Lord Igor interjected. “I think she’s played you, moy mudak,” Igor sneered. “I gave you the best education money could buy, and you still still cannot tell a woman from a dog.”
Viktor’s anger flared. “Syra is not–”
“My dear Gosha, you’re upsetting me,” complained Oksana as her two daughters watched the scene like cats who had cornered a mouse. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant – like how Irochka will marry Lord Kyrill Petrovich’s son this summer?”
Igor harrumphed, muttering something about their southwestern neighbor and his soldierly son.
His sisters, though, were clearly tired of hearing about the betrothal. Her red-gold hair plaited in two waist-length braids, Anna leaned forward. “Tell us about the tundra woman. Is she a noble lady?”
“Is she a whore like Pa says?” Irina said with an evil smirk.
“Does she speak Ruthenian?”
“I bet she’s good with her tongue.”
“Is she brave? Or timid?”
Viktor forced his jaw to unclench. He had always frozen or hidden from their taunts, but Syra deserved better than this. She deserves better than me. He forced that thought away. “Syra is a shaman, and the artifact she carries can control spirits.”
Irina laughed shrilly. “You’re fucking her!”
His face burned. He wished.
“Vitya,” his mother whimpered, her eyes wide and shining. “You are … bedding … that woman?”
“I didn’t say that,” he protested. “Irina is jumping to–”
Oksana’s face crumpled and she pulled out a kerchief. She began a peculiar sob – without tears. “Oh, my poor baby boy! Led astray!”
“You are a Ruthenian nobleman,” growled Igor. “The son of a boyar. And you debase yourself by fucking that peasant.”
Viktor wished his cheeks would stop getting hotter. He hadn’t crossed any line with Syra. He had treated her like a lady. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“I should disown you,” his father threatened. “All you’ve ever done is embarrass me.”
“Do it.” Viktor stood. “Disown me. That would be better than having to listen to you.”
“Get out!” roared Igor.
Viktor didn’t need to be told twice. He stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him.
In the corridor, he paused. The servants stared at him in shock.
He let out a sharp breath. He had never fought back before.
It felt … good. If he could denounce his parents, he could surely tell Syra everything now.
He ran his fingers through his hair, nodded at the servants, and then went to find Syra.