Page 85 of Cashmere Cruelty

I must be going insane. Because this isPetra—harpy-grip, threatens-my-baby-in-Russian Petra—and yet… and yet, I feel for her. If anyone knows what it’s like to be overlooked because of the circumstances of your birth, that’s me.

And besides—Jesus H. and all his friends, it’s the twenty-first century. Would it kill men to stop thinking with their dicks?

Says the gal currently making life-altering decisions based on her uterus, a voice whispers in my mind.And/or clitoris.

Goddammit. I hate when the voices are right.

“I hope you get that,” I say sincerely, dusting off the mended blazer. “Vore or whatever.”

“Vor.”

“Right. That.”

Petra inspects the blazer. Her expression’s guarded, but I can tell she’s impressed.

Of course she is. You’d never know it was torn to begin with. That’s the mark of a good tailor—making things look new even when they aren’t. Giving a second chance to what’s been broken.

“You’re weird,” she decides finally, slipping the blazer back on.

“Right back at you,” I say. “Next time, use the doorbell, will you? I’m not gonna leave you in the hallway.” She eyes me skeptically, so I add, “Pinky swear.”

She does not, thankfully, take my pinky.

On the way out, though, Petra’s gaze lingers on something. “That yours?” she asks.

I follow her line of sight. It’s a midnight blue maternity dress—slightly sheer, with silver embroidery. “Yeah,” I answer. “Why?”

“It’s… nice,” she says with a grimace, like it’s taking her a lot of effort to spit out a word that’s not a scathing insult. “You should wear it. It’ll look good with your coloring.”

I’m speechless. There’s no other way to describe it—I have forever lost the ability to form words.

Because there’s no way that Petra just paid me a compliment, is there?

“And also it’ll hide your fat,” she adds, making a quick getaway.

I blink. The door closes.

Still a bitch, then.

26

MATVEY

“Evening, boss.”

I return Grisha’s greeting with a nod. Standing here again, in front of April’s door—mydoor, I remind myself—makes my mouth water. After last night, the wise thing to do would have been to keep my distance. Let this heat simmer down to a smaller flame.

Unfortunately, I made my own bed. I was the one who demanded family dinner every night. What kind of man would I be if I backed out now?

I’ve never backed out. Of anything.

A pretty face isn’t going to change that.

With that grounding thought in mind, I ring the doorbell. Dinner is dinner; it doesn’t have to come with dessert. I’ve steeled myself against the cold of Russian winter, the pain of gunshots, the bitter taste of defeat. I can steel myself against April Flowers.

And then she opens the door, and I change my mind.

She’s wearing a dress. Not justanydress: a stunning maternity dress, the deepest midnight blue. It looks like it’s been poured onto her—a liquid veil to lap gently over her curves, masking them from view.

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