Page 12 of Cashmere Ruin

“I said?—”

“Please,” Yuri begs. “Just… trust me.”

A part of me wants to keep arguing. I’m dying to punch the answers out of this man I once called my brother. This man who now dares speak to me about trust.

But time is ticking, and we’ve already wasted far too much of it.

“So be it,” I reply icily.

“Thank y?—”

“But it’s the last time I do.”

With that, I grab my phone and dial. “Grisha. Meet me at my loft. It’s an emergency.”

Then I train my cold gaze on Yuri. “Well?” I demand, voice filled with spite. “Lead the way,brother.”

5

APRIL

When I open my eyes again, I don’t recognize my surroundings.

I’m no longer in my ratty motel room, that’s for sure. Not with these hand-carved wooden walls, the decorative antiques peppered tastefully on expensive furniture—Mrs. Tanner would have pawned it all in a heartbeat.

And then there’s the rustic air of the place, more forest-y and way less“I can make all your dreams come true for ten bucks an hour, if you don’t mind the smell.”

That’s when it dawns on me:This is a cabin.

And then:I’m not dead.

I stir on the couch, a sharp pain stabbing through the back of my head. “Ow,” I mutter.

“Apologies. My men can be a bit rough.”

I sit up immediately.That voice.After what happened at the motel, I’d recognize it anywhere. “You.”

“Me,” the man agrees with a smile.

“Where’s my baby?” I scan the room for her, but I don’t see her anywhere. Panic sets in. “What did you do to my baby?!” I start screaming.

The man holds up a hand. “I assure you, Ms. Flowers, your baby’s perfectly fine.”

“I want to see her!” I rise from the couch. The lingering effects of the head blow make me sway, but I don’t care. I could be crawling on my hands and feet, and I wouldn’t goddamn care. “Let me see my baby!”

My baby.That’s all that matters to me.

With a sigh, the man turns. He scoops up something from behind him. I couldn’t see it before, but now, I do: it’s a crib. A wooden one, like they used to make decades ago.

And inside…

“Give her to me,” I snarl. “Give her to me right now.”

The man tuts. He picks up my baby and holds her in his arms. She goes willingly—gently. And how could she not? She isn’t even a month old; all she’s ever known is kindness. And if there’s one thing wolves in sheep’s clothing have got going for them, it’s feeling warm to the touch. “I’m afraid I can’t do that yet, Ms. Flowers. After all, we still need to talk.”

“Then talk.”

Despite the urgency in my voice—or perhaps because of it—the man takes his time. He brushes his fingers along the line of the baby’s nose, then plays with her tiny hands. Nugget’s quiet in his hold, her sleepy coos fading quickly. “I have to confess, April: I’m almost jealous. Mine was never as easy to settle.”

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