15. April

15

APRIL

By the time family dinner comes around, I still haven't found my answer.

"Evening," Matvey greets, the picture of perfect courtesy. He's wearing a tailored anthrax gray jacket and a crisp burgundy shirt. His cologne wafts through the air with every step, nearly overpowering the delicacies on the tray.

God in Heaven above, one question for ya: why did You make Your biggest asshole so fucking hot?

I shake myself. This is not the time to be ogling the enemy. "Hi," I offer back, polite but distant.

Matvey arches an eyebrow at me. Then he motions for whatever poor waiter he plucked from his shift downstairs to push the cart inside. The victim in question isn't quite shaking, but I have a feeling I'll hear the cutlery rattle soon enough.

"Thank you," I say, hurrying to commandeer the cart. "I can take it from here."

The waiter shoots me a grateful look. Then, once Matvey finally nods, he can't duck out fast enough.

"You don't have to do that." Matvey frowns. "It's his job. He's paid to do it."

"And I'm paid to take measurements and make suits," I counter, gliding by with our trays. "But I think we both know customers can overstep."

Matvey stops just shy of a Touché. There's an amused glint in his eyes, but I force myself to pay it no mind. If I start appreciating all the little ways he's secretly charming, I won't survive the night.

Then he pulls out my chair. I die a little inside.

"How was your day?" he asks, settling across from me. To think that, just hours ago, it was me and Elias here, having tea and pouring our hearts out…

Fat chance of that happening . If Matvey has a heart at all, he has yet to show the symptoms.

"Good," I say, spying the menu for the night. I'm a girl of simple needs… and, apparently, a way finer palate than I imagined. I can't bring myself to splurge on anything fancy for lunch—though the salads here will make you cry for the opposite reason than most salads do—but part of me was already looking forward to this.

For the food, of course.

Certainly not for the company.

"How was yours?" I ask before digging into my smoked salmon risotto with asparagus cream. The lemon zest on top practically melts in my mouth. I swear, I've never had to try this hard not to moan.

Well. Almost never.

"Good," Matvey echoes.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. It's not fair of me to expect it—I was the first to choose the hermit life—but man… if this is gonna be the level of conversation, this family dinner thing is gonna be even more awkward than I feared.

"I never had family dinner before," I find myself blurting out. "Or, well, not at the table."

Matvey's eyebrow shoots up. "How's that?"

Great job, April. Way to trauma dump. "We weren't really… traditional." It's not completely true: at least one half of my family is traditional to a fault. So traditional, in fact, they used to send the bastard daughter to cook with the help.

It's why I don't do this anymore—it just brings up shit I'd sooner forget.

But I'm not about to tell a stranger that. Because that's what Matvey and I are: strangers.

Who just happen to share 50% of our genes with the same baby.

Instead, I pick the least traumatic of the two halves of my family history. Which is saying a lot, all things considered. "My stepdad usually ate on the couch. You know, like the Romans," I add, attempting to lighten the mood.

Matvey frowns harder. Attempt failed. "And your mother?"

"She preferred… the liquid variety," I say vaguely. If there's anything Eleanor actually likes in this world besides Charlie, it's things that come in dark, corked bottles. But again—not gonna tell him that.

"I see."

If he didn't think you were trailer trash before, he certainly does now. "What about you?" I ask before I can connect my brain-to-mouth filter. "Did you have family dinner a lot with your mom?"

It's only then that I remember two things. First: Matvey, last night, saying he "never got the privilege" of family dinner at all.

And, secondly, Yuri's words: Our parents are dead.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck ? —

"I did."

My head shoots up. Matvey's watching me carefully, as if trying to gauge my motives. It feels a wee bit excessive, but then again, I did just put both feet in my mouth. Maybe he's just curious how that works.

"It wasn't all three of us together," he mentions off-handedly, switching our empty plates for full ones. "And it certainly wasn't as fancy as this. But I have… good memories of that. Me, my mom, and the dinner table."

Well, fuck me sideways with an Olive Garden breadstick. Is Matvey Groza… sharing ?

"That must've been nice," I say sincerely. "Is that why you want to keep the routine alive for…?"

For our baby . The words stick in my throat. It still feels so weird—having a baby with someone I barely know. Having something to call ours. If I think about it any harder, I'm gonna give myself an aneurysm.

Instead, I focus on the mouthwatering contents of my plate. Right now, that involves quail legs with tamarind glaze and fig chutney. There are about three things I'm itching to Google in that name alone, but I don't think Mr. Family Dinner here would take kindly to that. I can almost hear it: No phones at the dinner table, Ms. Flowers.

Is it bad that the idea of him scolding me kinda hot?

No! Bad April. Bad, bad hormones.

Matvey hums in the affirmative. I have to track back two separate freakouts to even remember what my question was.

Then I can hear the silence stretching again between us.

Quick, ask something. Anything. "What about your dad?"

It's like the air freezes around us. Like in those ghost movies, where the windows start icing over and people's breaths begin to puff.

Shit . I fucked up, didn't I?

"My father was a traitor."

I look up from my plate. Matvey's face is a mask of tension, cold radiating from his arctic eyes. Every muscle has gone rigid, starting from the thin line of his mouth. If I think of last night—that sly grin painted over carmine lips—it feels like a fever dream. To think that face could smile at all.

I should take the hint. I should bring up the weather. Politics. The local sportsball team. Anything, really, to change the subject.

But I don't.

Bad April.

"What do you mean?" I ask instead, feeling a strange pull towards that topic. Wanting to know.

"Precisely what I said," Matvey replies curtly. "He betrayed us."

"But I thought you said blood?—"

"I did," he cuts me off. "And I meant it. You can't trust anybody in this life, April. Only blood. So let me ask you this: what's the worst crime you could possibly commit?"

I don't want to play along with this. I want to go back to talking about nothing—about dinners and creating good memories.

But then I think of Eleanor's ever-present bottle. Of Dominic's new home, without a seat for me at the table.

"Betraying your blood," I croak.

"Exactly." Matvey pushes away his plate. He's barely touched it, but I can relate. I also seem to have lost my appetite. "No one's worse than a blood traitor. No one. Only death can wash out that stain."

He rises. So do I. Our mascarpone and blackberry tarts lie untouched on their trays, so I quietly stash them in the fridge. Maybe I'll share with Grisha in the morning.

And then, because I haven't learned my lesson yet, I speak up. "I don't disagree with that," I tell Matvey, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "Betraying your family is horrible. But I still don't think blood's the only way to make a family."

"Is that so?" Matvey comments noncommittally. "Well, we've have to agree to disagree."

When he takes his leave, he kisses my hand again. But this time, for whatever reason, his lips don't feel half as warm as last night.

Instead, they feel cold as ice.