Page 12 of Cruel Demands

“Practice my Russian.”

“Good.” She reaches for the remote. “Practice tonight. Sit with me and watch terrible people make terrible choices.”

“That is not language study.”

“It is culture.”

I laugh despite myself and settle back into the couch. Anya turns the volume up. On-screen, a beautiful woman throws a glass of wine into a man’s face while another woman watches from across the room with the grim satisfaction of someone whose evening has gone exactly according to plan.

Something deep in my soul stirs—a quiet, ridiculous certainty that I may be one of those terrible people soon. That I have just received a lucky break I do not deserve. And that, somehow, I am going to mess it up.

3

MIKHAIL

My maid sets a plate of toast and basted eggs in front of me, and I nod a thanks as I look over my emails, scrolling through my phone with one hand and sipping a coffee with the other.

Across from me, my mother watches with the same expression she used to wear when I was seven years old and came to breakfast with mud on my shoes. Disapproval sharpened by affection. I ignore it.

“You work too much,” she says drolly. She reaches for my hand, and I give it to her. Her fingers are cold, the skin thin as paper against mine. “But I know it is important work. A big politician. I wish your father were alive to see you now.”

The maid sets down the coffeepot and retreats before I can involve her in the conversation.

I tear off a piece of toast and drag it through the yolk of my basted egg.

A familiar pressure settles behind my ribs. “If my father were alive, he would tell me politics is theater for men too weak to hold a knife.”

My mother gives me a look. “Your father said many foolish things.”

“He married you. He could not have been entirely foolish.”

Her face softens. I hate how much I like seeing that. She strokes her thumb over my knuckles. “You should marry too.”

I pull my hand back. “No.”

Mama sits in her wheelchair beneath a wool blanket, her silver hair brushed neatly away from her face. Today is a bad day. I can see it in the tightness around her mouth and the slight tremble in the hand resting beside her tea.

Yesterday, she crossed the sitting room with only a cane and complained when the maid followed too closely. This morning, lifting her cup seems a heavy burden.

Still, she dressed for breakfast. Still, she insisted on coming downstairs. Still, she has enough strength to make my life difficult.

“Mikhail.”

“No.”

“You say this like I asked you to throw yourself into the river.”

“I would have considered that longer.”

She swats weakly at my sleeve. “Don’t be cruel to your mother. I want to see you married to a good woman before I die.”

“My father got the last good woman when he married you.”

That shuts her up. Only for a moment.

Then her expression turns soft in a way that makes me wish I had kept my mouth closed. “Oh, Misha. I won’t be around forever. You’re always so busy. I don’t want you to be alone forever.”

“I’m not alone,” I say.