Page 20 of Cashmere Ruin

“Hello, little one,” he breathes.

For the longest time, he says nothing else. Only stares into the eyes of his daughter.

I swallow my guilt and take the opportunity to get up and look for what I need. I grab a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. If there’s a good thing about murder cabins in the woods, it’s that there’s always a liquor cabinet. Then I grab my sewing kit.

When Matvey sees me come back with the supplies, he frowns. “Where did you even get that?”

“Thank Carmine. He saw fit to kidnap my bag, too.” I pour a generous amount of whiskey on the needle and thread, then hand it to Matvey. “Here. Sterilize the?—”

But he’s already halfway through the bottle.

“ … wound. Never mind.”

Wordlessly, I grab another.

As I give Matvey’s shoulder a booze bath, he keeps the baby safely tucked in his other arm. Not a single drop touches her, of alcohol or otherwise. In moments, she’s already fallen asleep.

He’s perfect with her, I think with another stab of guilt.They’re perfect together.

“You can put her down, you know,” I tell him. “She sleeps like the dead.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“This is gonna hurt.”

“I said I’m notleaving her.”

Guilt stabs me harder.

I pick up my tweezers and force my hands not to shake. Or my voice. “Fine. Have it your way.”

I don’t offer him something to bite down on. He doesn’t ask for it. “Check for an exit wound,” he barks instead.

“Already did. It’s there.”

With that, we fall back into silence.

After I’m done picking out the debris, I let my hands follow the familiar planes of Matvey’s back—the taut muscles, the sturdy bones. I’ve touched this place so many times: hugging, caressing, holding on for dear life as I shattered around him. I didn’t need an excuse then.

Certainly not a life-or-death one.

“Hold still.”

“Iamstill.”

“You’re shifting. The scar’s gonna come out all jagged.”

“Why does that even matter?” he snaps.

I hesitate, needle in the air. “You have beautiful skin,” I settle on. The truth, for once. “It’d be a shame to have it marred.”

To have it marred because ofme.

He doesn’t say anything in return.

But he does eventually put our daughter back down. I watch his fingers clench around the fabric of his pants, teeth gritted against the pain and dizziness. I don’t say anything, either. But as my fingers skate around the wound, I feel Matvey’s pulse quicken.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

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