Page 39 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

She summons a bottle of water out of thin air, like magic, and slides it over to me. “Drink up, kitty cat. Gotta hydrate before you die-drate! Then, let’s discuss this. C’mon, if you don’t tell me, who’re you gonna tell?”

“No one?” I suggest.

Nadya’s mouth puckers into a ridiculous pout. “That sounds lonely, D. Hate that for you.”

Well, that’s terribly lonely, isn’t it? I’d said to Anton not too long ago.

I’d wondered, after, if those words had hit home enough for him to trust Viktor with the news of the mole. If I’d been the one to push him to brave it. Right now, I can relate.

Maybe that’s why I sigh and admit, “It is. I think our mother fucked me up.” Nadya gestures at me to continue. I suck in a sharp breath. I take the time to unscrew the cap and sip at the water I’ve been assigned to drink. It buys me some time to think. None of the words feel right leaving my mouth, regardless. “I’ve spent some time with my mother-in-law, Galina. And it’s really gotten me thinking about what makes for a fruitful life as a woman. Is it—is it power? Independence? Is it a place, a person, you can call home? Can you make a life with someone, or even yourself, and be this whole, healthy person, when there’s this chunk of your heart missing?”

“She’s not missing. She’s in Moscow, living her best life,” Nadya points out dispassionately.

I feel myself deflating. “The idea of her, I mean.”

“You’re giving her too much power.”

“What, you’re telling me you don’t think about it? That the closest thing we’ve ever had to a parent is Trifon, or our nannies?” I demand, features pinching into a frown.

Nadya fixes me with a look so pitying, it’s frankly insulting. “I don’t spend that much time thinking,” she says. “I don’t spend my time tying myself up in knots about who I would’ve, could’ve, should’ve been. That’s not me. That isn’t what fulfills me. I’d rather be living my life, trusting my gut, doing the things that make me feel good and right, than sitting around thinking about it. Honestly, I think you and Señor Sourpuss are both miserable because of it a lot of the time.”

“I am not—” I kick away from my stool and stand up, furious. So angry, I trip over my words. It may not be unrelated to the three cocktails.

Nadya raises her hands in defense, eyes full of apology that really isn’t doing much for me right now. She can be so mean to me sometimes.

“I don’t mean miserable, dude,” she says. “I just don’t know a better word for it.”

“Esoteric,” I suggest.

“I don’t know what the fuck that means, D.”

I shoot her an ironic smile. “Look it up. You’ll see that that was extremely funny of me,” I say with a vindicated sniff.

“I will. Later,” she agrees. “I’m sorry, though. I didn’t mean to be a cunt. I was actually trying to say that I’m having trouble understanding why you’re spending your time thinking about a woman who doesn’t think about us when you have plenty of people in your life, like Señor Sourpuss, and me, and all of us, who think you’re the fucking bees-knees. Smart as all fuck. Hot as balls. Et cetera. Fuck our mother. You’re not just whole without her; you’re honestly kinda too much.”

I narrow my eyes at her, blinking against the tears that threaten. “That was a compliment, right?”

“You’re the funniest drunk. I love being a bad influence.” I missed the sound of her laughter, bubbly as champagne. “Which is why I think we should discuss if Señor Sourpuss’ dick is bigger than Viktor’s or the other way around? We should make a bet and hustle them. If we don’t find a way to benefit from being married to brothers—”

“Half-brothers,” I add.

“—then it’s just fucking creepy.”

“You have an extremely disturbing mind.”

“I also have a tape measure.”

***

I throw open the door to the guest bedroom with gravitas. At least a sheet and a half to the wind, I still manage not to topple over in my spiky heels. It’s impressive. I pause in the doorway, throwing my arms out, waiting for applause.

What I get instead is the man in bed, blinking at me owlishly.

“Husband,” I command, snapping my fingers.

Anton does not move from his spot on the bed. He’s wearing those ridiculous reading glasses again. And by ridiculous, I mean they make my ovaries whimper. It’s like he can read my thoughts. No sooner have I thought the words than he is taking them off, canting that insane jaw to level me with an appraising look.

I rip off the claw-clip holding hair curls secured, and whip my head until they’ve tumbled around my shoulders.