Page 124 of Cashmere Ruin

“And why’s that?”

“Because this looks like… like…”

“Like you want to take the fight to Carmine directly,” Grisha fills in. There’s none of my brother’s shock in his voice, only a vague glint of amusement. “Am I wrong?”

“Not at all.” Then I hand over three folders.

“Great,” Petra mutters. “More paper.”

“Paper is untraceable,” I remark. “Like this, the mole can’t track us.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

Right. Guess it’s time to break that particular glass. After all, this is a war council—and ifthatdoesn’t count as “in case of emergency”…

Besides, April’s right. I need to start trusting the people around me. Even if it’s only a handful of them, I can’t keep going behind their backs. Either I’m in or I’m out. And Petra’s more than proven herself.

“Someone’s been spying for Carmine all along,” I tell her. “That’s how the first deal got blown up. We thought it was just Ivan, but we’ve started suspecting others.”

“Like who?”

“Motya…” Yuri whispers in my ear.

But I press on. “Your father.”

Petra’s face freezes. For a split second, all movement in her stops. No one would call it “shock,” but then again, very few are familiar with Petra’s ways of handling emotions.

For better or worse, I’ve become one of them.

“I see,” she rasps.

If this had been anyone else, they might have started screaming in my face—even fainted outright. But this isn’t anyone else. This is Petra Solovyova, the Nightingale with wings of ice, and it takes her mere moments to collect herself, forcing her facial muscles to fall back into line. Back under her arctic control.

“I take it you knew?” she asks Yuri, her expression unreadable.

“He was acting under my orders,” I cut in. “If you’re going to be pissed at anyone, be pissed at me. I forced him not to tell you.”

She gives a dry, bitter laugh. “How the tables have turned.”

“It’s not a given yet,” Yuri tries to reassure her. “He might be innocent.”

She scoffs. “My father’s anything but innocent. But sure, do your worst.”

“Petya…”

She rubs her temples and sighs. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not mad that you’re investigating my father. I’m mad you thought I was too fragile to take it.”

Then she slumps on the chair, the fight drained from her. I used to think pregnancy wouldn’t have any effects on Petra—that she was just going to spawn like bacteria—but now, I can spot thesigns: the fatigue, the skin-and-bones frailty. I wasn’t close to April in her first and second trimesters, but if I had to guess, I’d say this is what taking breakfast hunched over the toilet looks like.

Who knew? My wife’s human after all.

“Clearly, you’re not.”

She gives me a strained smile. “Gee, thanks. Are we gonna hug now?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Good. I was ready to stab you if you tried.”

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