Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(67)

“You don’t have to feel guilty for not keeping in touch with them,” I tell her. “They made you fend for yourself when you were a kid. They can take care of themselves. It’s every person for himself in this world.”

“But you don’t actually believe that,” she says with a pointed look at my dog tag. “Everything for the family. Isn’t that what you believe?”

I turn away and check to see if the shrimp are thawed. Satisfied, I overturn the colander and let them splash into a chili lime marinade. “My situation is different.”

“I don’t see how. You never talk about your family. I don’t even know if you’ve seen them since we met.”

“I’ve been… busy.”

“But if they’re nice people—if they love you—they’re worth the effort, right? I’d kill to have a family who loved me.”

I lift my gaze to hers. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Bullshit,” she retorts flatly. “You care about them. I know you do. Your mom, your sister, your nephew, his mother. But for some reason, you don’t want to be around them.”

“This conversation is counterproductive to the stress relief cooking provides for me,” I tell her through gritted teeth.

“Are you going to cut me out of your life, too? I guess that’s just what you do with people who care about you.”

I decide to ignore her admission that she cares about me. “It’s nothing personal. I don’t like being around people.”

“You seem to be okay around me.”

I shoot her a dagger-like glare. “That’s debatable and something I’m reassessing as we speak.”

She rolls her eyes and then rests her chin in her palm. I can feel her eyes boring into me, trying to penetrate the walls I’ve fastidiously built around myself. To my irritation, it seems to be working.

“Is it because they remind you of your brother?” she asks finally, her voice soft.

I take a deep breath. “I cook best in perfect silence.”

She disregards my request. Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. It’s like she’s talking to herself—

except I can’t stop myself from listening.

“I felt the same way after Clara’s funeral. I hated seeing her parents. I hated seeing that ugly green trailer, too. Anything that reminded me of her was so painful.” She exhales, releasing the pressure Clara’s memory brought with it. “You’ve never told me how your brother died.”

I drop the marinated shrimp into the layer of oil shimmering on the skillet. They sizzle and crackle in the heat, and I wait for the sound to dampen before I turn back to her. “And you never told me how Clara died.”

She bristles. “Clara’s death was… complicated.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Some more than others,” she murmurs, clasping her pendant.

I watch her do it, strange emotions brewing in my chest. “You really think that thing is magic, don’t you?”

She looks down at her closed fist. “I believe in the magic it represented for two little girls who didn’t have any other source of hope.”

“If that thing was magic, your friend would still be alive.”

She recoils at my words, and I see the sweeping hurt flash across her face. She pushes herself off the barstool and backs away from me.

“I don’t expect you to understand. You haven’t mourned your brother. All you’ve done is run from

your family and your pain. Well, guess what, Misha?” she snaps. “You can’t outrun grief. It catches up with you eventually.”

I shake my head. “I don’t intend on letting anything catch up with me.”

“Spoken like a man in denial.”

Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me alone to eat a meal made for two.





49

PAIGE

I have two problems.

The first is that I really want to leave Misha alone in the kitchen. I want him to stew over how right I am and how stupid he is for not listening to me. I want him to regret not letting me in.

The second is that I’m really freaking hungry. The scents of his dinner are wafting up the stairs, and I’m salivating. I feel like a cartoon character who smells something delicious. I’m seconds away from floating into the air and flying behind the steam trails back down to the kitchen.

I brood in my room for fifteen minutes. But when my stomach starts to feel like it’s being stabbed from the inside, I groan and slip back into the hallway.

I slowly creep down the stairs one step at a time. Eventually, I make it to the bottom. I peek into the kitchen, but I don’t see Misha anywhere.

Maybe I’ll sneak in, snag a bite, and then leave before he—

“Looking for something?”

I shriek as Misha steps out of the pantry, a bundle of fresh herbs in his hands.

He shakes his head at me and starts tearing bits of cilantro to sprinkle over the shrimp. Then he lays small basil leaves over crostini topped with mozzarella and drizzled with olive oil.

I barely resist licking my lips as I straighten up. “I… just wanted some water.”

“To wash down all the food you want to eat?”