Page 145 of Cashmere Cruelty

I slip out of bed. I grab something from the nightstand. Silently, I pad out of my room.

And then I hear a familiar voice curse. “Blyat’.”

I slump. “Couldn’t sleep?”

From the kitchen sink, Matvey turns to me. In the semi-darkness of the room, all I can see are the shadows on his face. “April.” Then: “Is that a frying pan?”

“Judge all you like,” I shrug. “This baby’s been christened in battle.” I glimpse a few shards of broken glass in the sink. “Are you hurt?” I ask immediately, taking his hand without thinking.

Matvey shakes his head. “It’s just a cut.”

“That’s what Khal Drogo said, and look what happened to him.” I grab the first-aid kit under the sink. Then I swipe two intact glasses from the cabinet and fill them with water. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“And after a little disinfectant, you’ll be even finer.” My lips twitch, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Or are you afraid I’ll put a spell on you?”

Without another word, Matvey complies.

To his credit, he wasn’t lying: it really is just a tiny cut. A couple of dabs of soaked cotton, a little bandage, and it’ll be good as new.

“Where did you learn how to do this?” Matvey asks as I work, breaking the silence.

“I was a total klutz as a kid,” I answer. “Got my fair share of bumps and scrapes. Figured it’d be quicker if I learned how to take care of them myself.”

I don’t say the quiet part out loud:Because no one else would.

But Matvey seems to hear it anyway. “You’re good at it.”

“Thanks.”

I don’t tell him that it’s just another way for me to fix things. Tailoring, nursing—all of it’s just more of the same. Taking what’s broken and giving it a second chance, a third, a fourth.

Then maybe it won’t have to be thrown away.

Silence falls between us again. But this time, it doesn’t feel as tense as before. Maybe it’s the night; maybe it’s the city lights dancing in from the balcony. When it’s late like this, everything takes on a different hue.

Even loneliness.

“You know,” I venture, “when I was a kid, I used to have all sorts of nightmares.”

Matvey’s face tells me I hit the nail on the head. Not that the big bad Bratva Puckman would ever admit to having nightmares. Clearly, it’s nightmares who have him. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm. Sometimes, it was just your run-of-the-mill jump scare: monsters under the bed, ghosts behind the curtains, creepy dolls coming alive.”

“Can’t relate.” Matvey shrugs. “I didn’t really dream as a kid.”

We all dream, I think but don’t say.We just can’t always remember.

Sometimes, it’s too painful to remember.

“It wasn’t those dreams I was afraid about, though,” I continue. While I talk, I start wrapping gauze around the shallow cut on his palm. “After those, I could usually go right back to sleep. But when the real nightmares came, then I’d just stare at the ceiling until dawn.”

A beat goes by. Two.

“What nightmares were those?” Matvey asks eventually.

I shouldn’t be telling him this. I shouldn’t be telling anyonethis. Old wounds should fester in silence, at least when it comes to someone like me. Someone who’s too weak to fix herself.

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