Page 71 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
If it’s true (Victoria needs more time to collate the evidence), this changes everything.
Now, I just need to figure out how to play it with Cartier. As far as she’s aware, Yuri Asimov is her uncle, and my family was responsible for her being orphaned when she was a baby.Without all the facts, anything I say will feel like I’m trying too hard to keep her on my side, as though I brought her here hoping that she’d overlook the whole family feud thing and move on without a backward glance.
It's a delicate line, and I feel like I’m crossing it a couple hundred feet above the ground without a harness.
I’m in too deep. I won’t lose her now, not for anything, or anyone.
Not even for my family.
I findCartier in the library. She’s on the sofa, feet up with a cozy blanket tucked around her, andDoctor Zhivagoopen on her lap.
She saves her place with a bookmark and closes the book, her smile lighting up her face. Ivana isn’t here.
“She didn’t hang around,” Cartier says as if reading my mind.
I don’t tell her that Ivana will be busy overseeing the new, tighter security arrangements. Instead, I set the tray down on the desk, hand Cartier a drink, and join her on the other end of the sofa.
“What did she want to show you?”
Cartier slants her eyes and suppresses a wide grin. “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”
Whatever Ivana did, it worked. Cartier raises the cup to her lips, takes a tentative sip, licks the cream from her top lip, and then gags.
“Oh…” She’s already kicking off the blanket and standing up, one hand covering her mouth.
I take the mug from her hands before she spills it. “What’s wrong? I made it the way you showed me.”
“It isn’t…” She swallows hard, her hand still over her mouth. “I don’t…”
I follow her to the bathroom, where she kneels by the toilet and retches into the bowl while I hold her hair away from her face. When she’s done, she sits back against the wall, her face pale and clammy.
I soak a face towel in cold water and place it on her forehead, sitting beside her and holding her hand. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“No.” A stray tear trickles from the corner of her eye, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. “I’m fine now. I think it was just the milk.”
“I should’ve checked it before I warmed it up. I’m sorry. What can I get you?”
She rolls the back of her head across the wall and gives me a small smile. “Grilled cheese.”
“Grilled cheese?”
“With sweet chili sauce.”
I smile. “That’s quite specific.”
“What can I say?” She rests her chin on my shoulder, her cheeks flushed with color again. “I’m a specific kind of gal.”
We take grilled cheese, sweet chili sauce, and a couple cans of soda into the den.
I think this is Cartier’s favorite room now that the Christmas tree is in the corner. The fireplace has been decorated with candles, and stockings hang in a row from the mantelpiece, while more fairy lights are strung around the windows. I’d buy every fucking strand of lights on the entire planet if it means that I get to see her face glow with joy whenever she enters the room.
Three helpings of grilled cheese later, she finally looks herself again.
“My sister emailed me earlier.” No time like the present.
It isn’t exactly how I’d planned it, but neither of us are prepared to move. A cheesy movie is playing on the TV, sound turned down low because we’re not paying attention. We don’t need to. The snowy scenes, the red and green sweaters, the twinkling lights and smiling faces are enough.
“The feud between our families goes back to my grandparents’ generation.”
