Page 8 of Cruel Demands

Anya laughs and reaches for the bowl of sunflower seeds on the table. “There are worse reasons,” she says, pulling an empty shell from her mouth.

“Name one.”

“Love.”

“And Petyr says I’m cold.” I point my scarf at her as I unwind it from my neck. “You’re worse.”

“Nyet.” She shakes her head solemnly.

No.

“I am realistic.”

“You’re heartless.”

“In Russian, this is compliment.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Your Russian is not good enough to argue.”

“You’re awful.”

“Spasibo.” Thank you.

I drop onto the couch beside her and let my head fall against the cushions.

The apartment is small enough that the kitchen, living room, and dining area are basically one room having an identity crisis. My bedroom is the size of a closet. The radiator makes a clanking noise every night like someone is trying to escape from inside it.

But it’s mine. For now. For this year.

Anya nudges my knee with her foot. “Did he ask again?”

“Petyr?”

“No, Pushkin’s ghost. Yes, Petyr.”

I sigh deeply. “Yes, he asked again.”

“And?”

“We’re getting married. What do you think? I said no.”

“You always say no.”

“Because he always asks. If he stopped asking, I’d stop saying no.”

“He likes you.”

“I know.”

“You could do worse.”

“I know that too.”

She watches me for a moment, her amusement softening into something more careful. “Then why not? He is not asking for your hand in marriage.”

I close my eyes.