Page 40 of Cashmere Ruin

Her words catch me off-guard. Her eyes, shining with that familiar fire. “Fine.” I drop back onto the couch.

April gathers her supplies and perches next to me. This time, she has a proper first-aid kit. “No whiskey?” I ask.

“Your liquor cabinet’s locked.”

I frown. “Since when?”

“Since Grisha locked it,” she answers. “Didn’t you order him to do that?”

I roll my eyes internally.Goddamn Grisha.“Must’ve forgotten,” I mutter.

April starts to pull on my collar, then seems to think better of it. Her fingers brush my skin as they retreat, warm like embers. “Take off your shirt,” she whispers in a choked voice.

The sensation lingers. I swallow around it, unbuttoning my shirt with careless movements. I don’t care if it hurts—I want to get it over quickly.

No, Ineedto.

Once that part’s done, April’s hand comes back, fingertips ghosting over my skin. “Sit still,” she murmurs, voice lower than before.

“Just get it over with.”

She gives a small nod. “Alright.”

Her touches are soft, measured. She follows the wound carefully, cleaning away the dirt, warding off the rot. I can’t believe I’m letting her do this again—getting close to the most vulnerable parts of me.

But apakhancan’t afford to be vulnerable. Nor can he afford to fall back into the waiting arms of the siren who almost got him killed.

“So, Carmine…” She hesitates. “He’s your dad?”

“He’s not my anything. I just share his genes, that’s all.”

“That’s ironic,” she observes. “All you do is go on about ‘blood this, blood that,’ and now, it’s just genes?”

“Family doesn’t betray each other,” I cut short. “Never.”

April takes the blow. She accepts it gracefully, like she’s always accepted everything: my moods, my orders, my desires.

Everything but your lies, that horrible voice whispers.

I shake it off. Whatever it has to say, I don’t want to hear it. “What’s it to you?” I demand.

She looses a pensive sigh. “Aside from the fact that it’s just nice to know? It’s…” She fumbles for words. “I don’t know—weird? I never pegged you for half-Italian.”

“I’m Russian,” I growl back. “Whatever Carmine is has nothing to do with me.”

“Good.”

I frown. “‘Good’?”

“Well, I always did like pineapple on pizza.”

For a split second, I almost lose control of my face and smile.

Get it together. Remember who she is.“Hm.”

“How d’you end up with an Italian mafia boss dad—sorry, gene-lender—anyway?”

“Aside from the fact that my mother had terrible taste in men?”

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