Page 90 of Savage Don

“That’s Sofia,” he says.

“I guessed.” My voice comes out quieter than I expect.

Viktor steps closer, but not too close. He looks at the photograph with the easy sadness of someone who has passed this wall a hundred times and still cannot make himself ignore it completely. “She hated that dress,” he says.

I look at him. “The white one?”

“Yes. Nikolai bought it for Anya from some absurd children’s boutique in Paris. Sofia said it made her look like a miniature cake.”

Despite myself, I smile.

“She does look a little like frosting.”

“She loved it, of course,” Viktor says. “Wore it for three days. Refused to let Galina wash it.”

I look at the photo again.

Anya is laughing, one hand caught midair, her whole little face open and bright. Sofia’s hand rests near her knee, not posed, just close enough to catch her if she tipped over.

“She looks happy,” I say.

“She was, that day.”

There is something careful in the way he says it.

“What was she like?” I ask.

Viktor takes a sip from his glass, then leans one shoulder against the wall beside the photographs. “Sofia?”

“Yes.”

He thinks about it. “She could make people feel comfortable very quickly. That was her talent. She would walk into a room full of people who hated each other and somehow make them behave for ten minutes.”

“That sounds useful in this family.”

“It was extremely useful in this family.”

His mouth curves, but the smile fades as he looks at the next photograph. Sofia at some formal dinner, sitting beside Nikolai with one hand resting on his sleeve. He’s younger there, darker-haired, but still very recognizably Nikolai. Still watchful. Still serious. Only in the photo, the seriousness is turned toward her.

I feel something twist in my stomach.

Not jealousy exactly. That would be insane. But something close enough that I dislike myself for it.

“She was beautiful,” I say.

“Yes.”

He says it simply. Affectionately. Without performance.

The guilt from earlier creeps back in.

Nikolai was married to this woman. Anya lost this woman. This house still has her on its walls, in its rooms, in the way people lower their voices when her name comes up. And I was just in his study, letting him put his mouth on me.

I fold my arms around myself. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“You’re allowed to look at family photographs, Elle.”

“I’m not family.”