We leave the house through the front door. As we step outside, I take Yulia’s hand, squeezing her fingers lightly, and she gives me a wry look.
“I’m not going to run, you know,” she says, and I smile, some of my anger fading.
“It’s not to prevent you from running,” I say, tightening my grip on her hand. Yulia is mine now, and nobody’s going to hurt her again—not without answering to me, at least.
“Ah.” She looks around at the guards and other passersby, most of whom are surreptitiously staring at us. “So this is strategic?”
“Partially.” I’m holding Yulia’s hand because I want to, but broadcasting our relationship to others is a definite bonus, especially since a few of the guards are eyeing her long, slender legs with obvious appreciation.
I glare at them, and they swiftly turn away.
