Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(24)

I feel like a terrible person. Maybe I really am one.

Dimitri hasn’t physically separated Luka and me yet, and maybe he’s uncertain on what action to take since we’ve never been this close before. At least not after we signed those contracts. Almost five years ago.

Sergei’s confusion escalates, and he suddenly motions between me and his little brother. “Are you two together?”

“No,” we say in unison.

My bones ache; I’m so rigid.

“What are you drinking?” Dimitri asks me, grabbing my empty glass. He sniffs. “Alright, Baybay”—I hate when he calls me that, and unfortunately, he knows it—“you’re cut off.”

He likes to pretend he’s my father and Luka’s brother, but he’s neither to us. He’s his cousin and my co-worker friend.

For some reason, his words really rile me. It touches a deep place in my gut that was ready to enflame. In this moment, Dimitri represents Aerial Ethereal, those strict contracts, and every other hand that has clawed Luka and I apart.

On my stool, I spin more towards Dimitri—Luka looks at me. I feel him staring right in my direction.

“You can’t tell me when to stop drinking. You can’t order me around at all.”

Dimitri raises his brows. “I think I can. I throw my balls, you catch my balls. That’s how it works, Baybay.”

Luka hates when Dimitri refers to them as his balls more than me. I usually don’t care, but when he uses it as an attack, it’s annoying.

So I’m not surprised when Luka retorts in Russian, right at Dimitri.

“Stay out of it,” Dimitri tells Luka.

Before Luk replies, I say, “You’re not my dad, Dimitri. I had one.” They all hush and stare at me intently. My passion returns but in a more painful way. “His name was Neal Wright and he was a brilliant novelist, and not you or anyone could ever replace him.”

At this, I stand off my stool. And I wobble. Luka reaches out to catch me, but I spin into someone else’s chest.

My brother.

Shit.

Brenden holds me close and looks murderous, not just at Luka—but at all the Kotovas. Like they’re an extension of Luka’s bad influence on me.

“I’m leaving,” I say to my brother, fisting the back of his shirt so my knees don’t buckle.

Brenden points at Luka. “You owe her a grand.”

“Stop,” I force, about to break away from him now. I can’t bring myself to meet Luka’s eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Luka asks, sounding confused.

“You stole her box and then put it in another room.”

Luka says, “You were fined?” I think he’s asking me. He’s talking to me. He shouldn’t be…the contract…

A pit lowers in my stomach. I’m staring off at the wall—at the exit. I’m leaving. I try to pull away from my brother, but he clasps my hand like I need support.

I do, but not in the way he’s providing. It’s not his fault. He’s doing what he thinks is right.

“I told you he did it,” Brenden says to me.

Luka interjects, “What? No. No, I didn’t steal anything of hers. I wouldn’t…”

“Wait,” Sergei chimes in. “What box are you talking about?”

My head whips up to Sergei. He’s the only person still sitting, and behind him, Zhen starts to step on a tall stool to make an announcement.

“A cardboard box,” I say.

“Her name was on it,” Brenden adds.

“Right.” Sergei nods in realization. “That was me.”

What? I’m dumbfounded. Jaw unhinged, eyes big. He’s not apologetic, but maybe because he’s not aware of what happened.

“You stole her box?” Brenden is disbelieving. I think he wanted the thief to be Luka.

Zhen stands on a stool. “Infini artists!” he calls, barely catching anyone’s attention.

“I was helping a cousin move, and I remember taking the wrong box. I thought I put it back in the right room. Didn’t I?”

“At midnight.” I gape.

“You owe her a thousand bucks,” Brenden says.

Sergei’s eyes widen in shock, and he raises his hands. “No. I don’t have that kind of money. Aerial Ethereal didn’t even pay for my flight to the US.”

“You think my little sister has an extra grand lying around?”

“Little sister,” Sergei repeats under his breath, looking between us. “Right. I’m sorry, but I can’t help her. It’s not my problem.”

Luka shakes his head repeatedly. Over and over.

“What?” Sergei snaps.

Luka fumes silently, trying not to start something. He starts to walk away.

Sergei hops off his stool and grabs Luka’s shoulder. “No, what do you have to say? Tell me.”

Luka faces him. “You don’t want me to tell you what I think.”

“I do. I just asked.”

Luka grimaces, features brutally pained. He runs a hand down his face like he hates feeling this, like he’s trying to wipe it all off. I wince at the sight.

“Luka,” Sergei growls.

“Nothing’s ever your problem,” Luka tells him. “Nothing’s ever your responsibility—”