Page 125 of 10 Days to Ruin

The monster isn’t a mask. Neither is the man. They’re the same person, split down the middle.

And I’m falling into the crack in between them.

40

ARIEL

“Your place, huh? Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Sasha looks at me and winks as the elevator doors start to open. “Terrified.”

It’s like seeing the penthouse through new eyes. Last time, I couldn’t have been less concerned with the furniture or the man who picked it; I was mostly concerned about the location of the exits.

Now, though, I take my time looking around. Glass walls reveal Manhattan glittering like a spilled diamond necklace below, but the furniture belongs to a different century—ornate mahogany side tables, a velvet Chesterfield sofa aged to the color of dried blood. A bookshelf spans the entire west wall, crammed with titles in Russian, English, and what looks like Greek. How many languages does this man speak?!

“Decadent mobster or retired librarian?” I trail my fingers along a leatherbound edition ofAnna Karenina.“It’s hard to tell.”

Sasha strips out of his coat and goes to pour himself a drink from the bar cart in the corner. “Just don’t ask me if I’ve actually read them,” he teases. “Some of those stories are long. You hungry? Thirsty?”

“Speaking of stories…” I turn to face him. “Elena told me about the first time she met you. The woman you saved, the one who’s in Marseille now.”

He stills, a vodka bottle frozen halfway to the crystal tumbler. For a second, I swear I see fear flicker in those mercury eyes. Then it’s gone, replaced by his usual mocking nonchalance. “Eat first. We’ll talk after.”

“Afraid I’ll lose my appetite?”

“Afraid I’ll lose mine.”

He strides into the kitchen. I follow in time to see him tying the leather strings of an apron. His hands are deft and his face relaxes as he chops and cooks. In a few short minutes, the air is filled with the sound and smell of sizzling oil. He starts setting plates in front of me. Blini smeared with caviar, beet soup so dark it looks like liquefied heartbeats, pillowy dumplings that burst with venison and guilt.

“What wise words did your mom have about food?” I ask as I try not to shovel dumplings in my mouth like I’m a trash compactor with legs. “Because if these are her recipes, I’ll listen to anything she might’ve said.”

“She said, ‘The fatter the wife, the better your life.’”

My jaw drops with a shocked laugh. Sasha’s eyes are twinkling, too, even when I chuck a dumpling at his head. “She did not say that!”

He snags the flying food right out of the air and pops it into his mouth, utterly unfazed. “I may be paraphrasing.” Rubbing his hands on the dish towel, he adds, “These are her recipes, though. She had a gift.”

“Yeah,” I agree as the mood downshifts. “You can taste the love.”

Sasha regards me, palms planted flat on the counter.

“What?” I ask. “You’re staring.”

“Observing,” he corrects.

“Oh?” I lift my eyebrow. “Like what you see?”

His grin twitches. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“You’re just buttering me up so I keep complimenting your cooking,” I accuse, rapping the back of his knuckles with my fork.

“Shameless fishing for compliments is what gets me through the day, Ariel.” He laughs and straightens up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” I call after him as he vanishes down the hall.

His voice comes floating back. “I want to show you something.”

I’m wringing my fingers in nervous silence, wondering if I’ve gone too far tonight. If I’ve pushed too deep into territory that has been very clearly marked asDO NOT TRESPASS.Sasha hasn’t said anything about me trying to blindside him with the women’s shelter thing. Part of that is because he effortlessly turned the tables there without even trying, but part of it also seems to be… acceptance? Like, he’s acknowledging that there are parts of him he doesn’t share with anyone, and that those are the parts I’m most interested in seeing, and he’s maybe starting to warm to the idea of easing the restrictions and letting me in.

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