Page 211 of Cashmere Ruin

But I cut him off. “You left out something when you confessed to me.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You covered everything from the beginning to the end, but you deliberately avoided one part.”

“Which part…?”

“That night in the woods. When April was taken by Carmine.”

Realization dawns on him. “I…”

“You wanted me to hate you. So why leave out the one part that was guaranteed to make me do that?” He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. I already know why. “It’s because you had nothing to do with it, isn’t it?”

“Why are you?—”

“Carmine knew you had her. He couldn’t not know. But you still held him off for a month. So when his patience snapped, he acted on his own. And you came to me.”

He presses his lips tight. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Not for a traitor, it wasn’t.”

He falls silent for a long time. “Matvey, I…”

“I didn’t mean it,” I say before he can finish. He’s had his time to confess—now, it’s my turn. “All that talk of blood. I was lashing out. I was in pain and I hurt everyone around me because of it. I was just too stupid to see it.”

“But I betrayed you,” he whispers.

“I betrayed you first. I should’ve seen what was going on with you.”

“You couldn’t?—”

“Yes, I damn well could.” Because it’s the truth, isn’t it? There were signs everywhere. And if I’d just been a little less self-absorbed…

Then maybe I could’ve saved us.

“I’m sorry, Yuri. I’m sorry it took me this long to see you.”

His eyes are wet now. Christ, when did we become a bunch of schoolgirls? “I still betrayed the Bratva,” he shakes his head. “I betrayed mypakhan.”

“And you’ll be punished for that,” I declare. “So don’t you dare quit on me before I can give you the beating you deserve.”

“Is that an order?”

I feel the corner of my lips twitch. “No, smartass. It’s a request from your brother.”

He smiles in return. “Okay, then.” It’s weak and wavering, but there. “Brother.”

63

MATVEY

24 HOURS LATER

I blink awake to an odd combination of smells: antiseptic wound dressing and croissants.

Specifically,freshcroissants. Straight from the French bakery around the corner.

It wouldn’t usually be enough to rouse me, but I’ve had one hell of a weekend. “Save me a plain one,” I grumble.

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