Page 30 of Ruby Malice

“But you come here to relax, don’t you?” she whines. “Why bother leaving everything and everyone behind in New York just to come here and do more of the same? Working isn’t relaxing.”

He winces. It’s slight, but I catch it, and it makes me frown in confusion. “I’m not the one who comes here to relax,” he says ominously.

That puzzles me. If not him, then who does? I doubt it’s Viktoria. Her whole life is one long vacation. Is there someone else he travels with? Sonya didn’t mention anyone else in the house. Then again, that third floor is off-limits. Does he have a secret family stashed away up there?

I realize with a start that I’m frozen in the pantry, eavesdropping. So I quickly grab a container of rolled oats and some fruit. Cooking is not my forte, but I made my mom the same breakfast every day for months. By the end, she couldn’t be on her feet long enough to walk to the bathroom, let alone cook. So I picked up some tricks, and my oatmeal was her favorite by far.

Viktoria sighs. “Well, I followed you here, and now, I’m bored.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” he says coldly.

I glance over just as Viktoria curls her body against his, breathing on his neck. “You didn’t have to ask. I did it for you.”

Kirill looks over at me, and I quickly turn away. I channel all of my focus into chopping berries while the water on the stove boils.

While I cook the oatmeal in one pan and heat my fruit and cinnamon sticks in browned butter in a second pan, Viktoria prattles on endlessly.

“Miranda will be here next week, but I already told her we might be busy.”

“We don’t have plans.” Kirill sounds like he could not care less. I have no idea why he puts up with her.

“Like that matters,” Viktoria cackles. “Miranda is a bitch. I don’t even want to see her anyway.”

“Then don’t complain to me about being bored.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” She slides her stool closer to him, the legs scraping across the floor. “I just want to spend more time with you. Even when I’m here, you disappear upstairs. I like the whole hard-to-get vibe, but I get lonely. Your bed gets cold without you.”

The mention of Viktoria being in his bed makes me feel flush. Though that could be because everything on the stove is done and on the verge of being burnt. I shift the oatmeal into a bowl and then pour in the butter and berries, swirling it over top. The nutty brown butter smells like fruit and cinnamon. And my mom, of course. This is how her last days smell in my memory. Like fruit and cinnamon and the acrid tang of death.

When I present the bowl to Viktoria, she’s sitting sideways in her chair with one leg draped over Kirill’s thigh. He isn’t encouraging her at all, but he isn’t shoving her away. Apparently, that’s enough for her.

She leans forward, peers into the bowl, and wrinkles her nose. “No wonder you’re wearing the baggy shirt. If you’re putting shit like this in your body every morning, you have to steer clear of anything fitted.”

I blink at her. “It’s oatmeal and fruit.”

“Slathered in butter and sugar.” She shakes her head. “Not going to happen. Besides, I already had a green smoothie. I’m not hungry.”

Bitch.I want to throw the steaming hot bowl at her face. Instead, I swallow down every insult dying to fly out of my mouth and nod. “Then I’ll get to work.”

I turn and walk out of the room with even, measured steps. But the second I’m out of view, regret rises up.

No one should be allowed to talk to another human the way Viktoria talks to me. Lana was not right about housekeeping being beneath me, but being belittled at work definitely is. I have dignity, don’t I? I’m a person. I’m real. I’m here.

My blood boils. I’m about to turn around and stomp back into the kitchen to let Viktoria know exactly where she can shove her green smoothie. But then I hear the thundering rock crash of Kirill’s voice.

“Get off of me,” he says.

The stool legs scrape across the floor again, and Viktoria gasps. “What the hell, Kir?”

“Don’t call me that.”

She hesitates. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re climbing on me like a fucking tree, that’s what’s wrong.”

I thought I was being quiet, but every exhale sounds like a leaf blower now. I press my lips closed, my lungs burning as I hold my breath. Waiting for someone to speak.

Suddenly, there’s a shattering crash on the wall just behind me. A bit of blue ceramic dripping with oatmeal skitters into the hallway.

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