Page 54 of Scarlet Thorns
“Not tonight.” I catch her wrist, stopping her advance. “I’m not in the mood.”
Her eyes narrow, beautiful features twisting into something uglier. “You’re never in the mood anymore. Are you fucking someone else?”
“Yob tvoyu mat’.” The curse escapes before I can stop it. “Here we go.”
“Don’t speak Russian when I’m talking to you!” Her voice rises, the practiced seduction replaced by the kind of shrill anger that makes my skull throb. “I know you’re hiding something from me, Osip. You disappear for hours, you won’t touch me half the time, you act like I’m some kind of burden—”
“Youarea burden.” The words come out cold, but I’m past caring about her feelings. “This was never supposed to be permanent, Anett. We fuck, we part ways, nobody gets attached. Simple.”
She recoils like I’ve struck her, tears springing to her eyes with suspicious speed. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve shared?”
Everything we’ve shared?
A few months of meaningless sex and one-sided conversations where she talks about her modeling career and I drink until she becomes tolerable. Some foundation for forever.
“Get dressed,” I say, standing and reaching for my clothes. “I’ll call you a taxi home.”
“A taxi?” The tears come faster now, though I suspect they’re more manipulation than genuine hurt. “Osip, please. I gave up my flat.”
I stiffen. “You what?”
“My lease expired last month. I didn’t renew it.” She’s using that little-girl voice now, the one that probably works on most men but just makes me want to throw her out the window. “We’re together, aren’t we? You live in this huge house. Why should we live separately?”
Blyad.
Glupaya suka!
She gave up her flat without telling me? Backed me into a corner where saying no makes me the asshole? This is exactly the kind of bullshit that makes my trigger finger itch.
“When were you planning to mention this?” My voice is deadly quiet.
“I thought you’d be happy.” But her eyes dart away, confirming what I already suspected— this was calculated, designed to force my hand. “Osip,” she continues, sliding closer and pressing her lips to my neck in a gesture that feels more like marking territory than affection. “I know how much you want a child. I can give you one. As many as you want.”
The mention of children is a knife between my ribs. She doesn’t know about Galina, about the son who died before drawing breath, about the nursery that still haunts my dreams. She knows I like kids because I mentioned it early on, back when I thought casual conversation was harmless.
Now she’s weaponizing it, using my losses to manipulate me into a future I never agreed to.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” I move toward the phone, fingers already dialing for a taxi service. “I’ll get you a room at the Four Seasons. You can figure out your housing situation tomorrow.”
“Please, baby.” She grabs my arm, nails digging into skin through the thin fabric of my shirt. “Just let me stay tonight. I promise I won’t push anymore. We can talk about this tomorrow when we’re both calmer.”
Fuck.
The smart move is to throw her out now, before this gets more complicated. But she’s crying— real tears this time, I think— and there’s something pathetic about watching her fall apart. Maybe it’s the therapy, maybe it’s exhaustion, but I find myself nodding.
“Guest bedroom,” I say firmly. “And tomorrow we have a conversation about boundaries.”
A conversation about boundaries?
What fucked up bullshit is this? Szabó would come in his pants if he heard me now. All the goddamn therapy has turned me into a fucking pussy.
Relief floods her features, followed quickly by offense. “The guest bedroom? Osip, we’ve been together for months—”
“Guest bedroom or the street. Your choice.”
She stares at me for a long moment, probably calculating whether another tantrum might change my mind. Whatever she sees in my expression convinces her to back down.
“Fine.” The word comes out sharp and bitter. “The guest bedroom.”
