Page 54 of Cashmere Cruelty
We both cringe at my word choice. “Okay, first:ew. Second: your littlekomuk, what else? He wants to know if the runt is yours or not.”
I pour myself a generous mug. I’m gonna need alot of caffeine for this particular conversation. Maybe something stronger mixed in, too.
“It’s mine,” I confirm.
“Blyat’,” Petra curses under her breath. “You’re positive?”
“The paternity tests are,” I answer after taking a long, scalding sip that burns every inch of me on its way down.Just what the doctor ordered.The pain centers me. “Both of them.”
“Okay,” Petra exhales, pacing up and down the loft. “Okay. Fine. We’re screwed, but fine.”
“We’re not,” I yawn from the kitchen table. “As far as Vlad is concerned, the test is still in the works. If push comes to shove, we’ll tell him it came up inconclusive. That’ll buy us time until the birth.”
“Oh, that’s great,” Petra bites out sarcastically. “And then what?”
“Then,” I growl back, impatience pounding at my temples, “the waters will have calmed. Vlad will have come to his senses. He’ll realize there’s no point in blowing up a profitable business deal over an extra mouth to feed. The end.”
“‘The end,’” Petra mocks. “Sure. And maybe pigs will fly and hell will freeze over and my father will conveniently forget all about the woman who pushed out that extra mouth to feed.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he will.” I rise to my full height. I’m growing tired of this game. “Because there’s nothing between me and April.”
Nothing but the memory of her skin under my lips. Nothing but the daily kisses I indulge in to keep that memory alive.
Petra shoots me a venomous smirk. “Is that so?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer. “Is that all?” I ask instead, moving towards the door. The sooner this nightmare of a conversation ends, the sooner I can get back to things that actually matter.
No such luck. “When’s the littlekomukdue anyway?”
“We don’t know.” I shrug. I went through all of April’s medical records from the last nine months: post-term pregnancy, family history, yada yada. Only the sex of the baby was blacked out—at April’s request, no doubt. “Apparently, it’s comfortable where it is.”
She sighs. “Lucky bastard.”
“Don’t.”
Surprised, Petra turns to look at me. “Don’t what?”
My fist is balled up on the table, knuckles gone white. I don’t make an effort to control the sudden surge of anger rushing through me.
I was clear about this once already. I don’t like having to be clear twice.
“Don’t call my child a bastard. I told you what would happen if you disrespected either of them.”
Petra blinks candidly. “I meant no disrespect, Matvey.”
Her tone is astonished. Subdued.
I don’t trust it one bit.
“I find that hard to believe.”
True to form, Petra circles the table and comes up to me. “What else do you call a child born out of wedlock?” she asks, feigning innocence. “It’s not an insult, you know; it’s a fact.”
“Petra.”
“Of course,” she continues, refusing to heed my warnings, “if you want alegitimateheir…”
Her manicured hand splays over my chest. I can feel my literal skin trying to pull away from her touch, the most unpleasant goosebumps I’ve ever felt spreading where her palm lays.