Yakov reaches out a hand to shake hers, and she reaches a shaky hand out to greet him. Stepping toward him, she gets flustered and catches her toe on thin air, trips, and nearly goes sprawling. Yakov reaches out to catch her just seconds after I do, and I pull her against me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I have to school myself, so I don’t deck him for coming anywhere near her. I’d kill him if he treated her badly but treating her kindly is almost just as bad. Apparently, I can’t hide my gut reaction, because Yvonne looks at me with wide, terrified eyes. She quickly grabs Yakov’s arm as if to remind me that she’s his.
“You look beautiful, Caroline,” she says in her soft-pitched voice. “Like a princess.”
Caroline turns away and nods, visibly uncomfortable from the praise. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m not sure what they did, but I—” she looks at me and closes her mouth, contemplating, before she continues. “Thank you.”
Yakov steps aside so that we can enter ahead of them. The anteroom to the ballroom is filled with guests just arriving, and a hush goes over the crowd when we enter. I want to leave this room. Just like before, I want to pick her up and whisk her away, away from the eyes of men who do wicked things. Away from the eyes of women who help them. To my private suite where no one can touch us.
“Tomas,” Yakov says in my ear to my left. “Did you invite her brother to join us?”
“Of course not,” I say tightly, smiling at our guests despite wanting to punch someone. What the hell is he asking me this for? “Why?”
“Just asking,” he responds, then moves to the side before I can ask him any questions. He isn’t just asking. For Christ’s sake, you don’t plant an idea like this and leave. Is her brother here? I’ll fucking kill him for showing his face. But Yakov is already gone, and that quickly, people fill in his place. Well-wishers and the like swarm around us so heavily, I feel her tense beside me, her breathing heavy and labored. I will not do this again with her.
Why the fuck did Yakov ask me that?
I need to anchor Caroline to me, so we don’t get separated. I look to my guards and snap my fingers, and instantly they part the crowds. Caroline breathes more easily as we finally enter the main room, but only for a second. I beckon one of the guards over. “Get Yakov back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cheers erupt all around us. Our guests are on their feet, clapping to welcome us, the sound of the applause deafening. So many people have arrived, I don’t recognize them all. I snap my fingers to Lev, who’s standing to the side watching us all.
“I want a detailed list of how many guests we have,” I tell him. “This is far more than I was expecting.”
“I think we had more show up than we planned for,” he says apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Who the hell was in charge of this? Heads will fucking roll for the haphazard way this has been put together. I don’t like the way she looks at me, pale and trembling. It takes me a second to realize she’s too still. She isn’t breathing.
“Breathe,” I whisper in her ear, and she gasps for breath, clutching my arm. She moves so easily from one feeling to the next, but her anxiety gives me pause. I don’t think she’s as defiant as she initially appeared. Her disobedience masks something else. Something hidden. It will be my job to unearth the reason for her anxiety, and I suspect her scar is my first clue.
A waiter offers me champagne. I take two flutes from the tray and hand one to Caroline. She downs it in one big gulp, then hands me the empty flute. I feel a corner of my lips quirk up. I order a second and hand it to her. “Drink.”
She drinks champagne while music plays and guests mingle. I allow it because the flutes are small, and I reason it will help her relax. I lead us to our seats, a small table at the far end of the room adorned with a large vase of red roses.
“Sit.” She sort of wobbles when she takes her seat, but she obeys.
“Good girl,” I praise. “Just follow my lead.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she says through pursed lips. She sways a little.
Is she more of a lightweight than I expected?
“Then don’t follow my lead. Disobey and earn a punishment.”
Her eyes narrow.
I shrug. “You know what’s on the table.”
“Looks like a bottle of wine,” she quips, pretending I’m speaking literally. I suddenly realize that she’s slurring her words. Is she that sensitive that three small flutes of champagne have her tipsy?