17. Matvey

17

MATVEY

"You could at least try to smile," Petra hisses at me through perfect rows of teeth, whitened just for the occasion.

The cameras flash. "I'm not in the mood, Petra."

"Really?" she coos back, eyes still fixed on the crowd of reporters. "And here I thought we were doing this for fun."

I force the corners of my lips to twitch. "Yeah? And yet we both know you love this."

"Posing for a bunch of sweaty guys in suspenders?"

"Being the center of attention."

Just my luck: I learn about a mole in my organization and instead of being free to deal with it, what do I get?

A fucking photo op. With Petra.

When the vultures with Nikons have eaten their fill, we head into the venue. Jupiter Hotels is inaugurating their newest location—which of course means media time. I hate this part of my job more than any other, but at least it's contained to grand openings.

Besides, it's my day job. And as someone so kindly pointed out to me recently, I haven't been great at keeping my cover.

"This is your hotel, Matvey," Petra whispers to me as she keeps smiling and waving at the crowd like the goddamn Queen of England. "No one's paying attention to me."

"Everyone's paying attention to you." I smile back—or at least try to. "You're the new Mrs. Groza. People will be wondering what you did to finally lock me down."

"Aside from getting pregnant by your brother?" she asks, words just low enough for me to hear. "I'd like to think it was my charming personality."

"That's a good one. Almost made me laugh for real."

"Laugh all you want." She winks at a particularly interested photographer. No doubt that one's going to be all over Page Six tomorrow. "We both know you aren't winning any contests in that department."

"Guilty as charged."

"Especially with how you're treating your actual Mrs. Groza."

I freeze mid-wave. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" She grins as we take the elevator to the terrace. "Then I guess I just spent forty minutes drying the eyes of the cleaning lady. My mistake."

Those words send a pang straight to my chest, but I force myself to ignore it. My shoulder isn't healed yet; some pain is to be expected, especially with all the waving. "Whatever lies she's selling you?—"

"She isn't selling me anything, Matvey. She's a wreck."

I finally find my smile. It's not a pleasant one. "Right, right. Remind me again whose fault that was."

Yours , answers the nagging voice inside my head. All fucking yours.

Petra scoffs. "You're impossible. She made a mistake, Matvey. She didn't kill anyone."

"Like that means anything to you or me."

"It means something to her . Right now, you're treating her like a war criminal."

"What she did was a crime."

"Now, who's spewing words that mean nothing to us?"

Finally, the cursed ride ends. We step out onto the terrace, where Petra is quick to plaster her winning smile back on. Hopefully, the facial paralysis will keep her from talking.

It's a short-lived hope. "If you're going to blame someone, blame me. I'm the one who forced you into a shotgun wedding."

"Bold of you to assume I don't blame you," I reply.

"But you talk to me. You're okay working with me, even joking with me. To April, you won't say a single word."

"‘Okay' is a strong word."

"I'm still breathing, though, aren't I?"

Cameras flash in unison. I try to keep my eyes from squinting, but it's nearly impossible; the barrage of lights is merciless. I swear, if those camera shutters were any louder, I'd think I was being shot at. "I think we both know that wasn't my first choice."

"Petra! Show off your ring!"

My blushing bride does as instructed. She flashes the photographers another charming wink, giving the papers a shot to fight over until the sun rises. "But it was your choice. Keeping me alive, and then marrying me."

"A choice you're already making me regret."

"Oh, please. As if you haven't been regretting it from the second you had to break the news to April."

My hard-won smile falters. "Careful," I growl. "I'm not above hitting a lady."

Petra laughs like I just whispered something funny in her ear. "Yes, you are. Besides, I'm carrying your blood , remember?"

As if I could ever fucking forget. "If I were you, I'd keep my nephew in there for as long as possible. The second he's out, I just might lose my patience."

"Who says it's a ‘he'?"

"He, she, they, it—whatever the case, it's the only thing keeping you safe right now. Don't forget that."

Petra's smile finally dims. "See, Matvey, this is your problem: you can't go two seconds without pushing someone away. As soon as they get too close, your hackles go up."

This time, it's my turn to bark out a laugh. "You? Close to me?"

"I'm close to your brother, which is close enough. You know I'm not going anywhere." Then, just for a second, her eyes turn sharp. "And neither is April."

Petra's words have the same nasty habit as her throwing knives: they stick the landing. Try as I might, I just can't shake them off.

"This has nothing to do with April," I snarl under my breath.

" Au contraire —it has everything to do with April."

Once downstairs, we're swept up by the reporters. We give our interviews. We pose some more. We don't say another word to each other.

And all the way throughout the event, Petra's words stick into me like a thousand knives.