I let out a long sigh, my muscles loosening until I lose track of time.
The next time I open my eyes, my hands are fisted in the sheets, gripping tight. I look to my right, and my husband is still here, sleeping quietly.
There was blood, so much blood dripping down my mother’s carpet in her bedroom in San Maleno. There was a shadow approaching, and there was me, dropping the knife I’d used to strike my mother in the heart.
The familiar nightmare replays in my mind like a broken DVD, pulling me up to a sitting position with my head in my hands.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
On my next inhale, however, my lungs halt. Because this felt different—something felt slightly different about this nightmare. A disembodied voice, maybe. I could’ve sworn I heard it telling me something. But the more I try to recall it, the blurrier the whole thing gets.
I run my hands through my hair, trying to shake off the visuals as I lie back down next to Mikhail. His protective arm immediately seeks me out, as if even in his sleep, he noticed I was gone.
Tomorrow. Maybe I’ll remember it tomorrow.
32
Cecilia
When I come down for breakfast, only Mikhail and Victoria are seated at the table, both silent. My sister-in-law flips through a book while idly picking apart a muffin, and my husband sips on a double espresso, like usual, scrolling his phone.
He was gone when I woke up, so we haven’t said a word to each other since our fight. Now, even if he hasn’t spotted me yet, there is tension in the air—thick and cruel. Just seeing him here, so cool and detached, makes me want to scream. I halt somewhere outside the dining area, suddenly losing my appetite.
“Oh, hey!” Victoria chirps, looking up. “Good morning. Come sit with us.”
I suck in a breath, avoiding meeting Mikhail’s gaze as I hesitantly approach the table, even if I catch him in the corner of my eye, watching me.
“Good morning,” I say. My chair drags back with a groan, and I plop next to Victoria on the farthest chair from my husband. “What are you reading?”
Victoria closes her book, blushing a little. “Oh, this? Just a romance book I ordered online.”
“Just say it’s filthy,” Mikhail adds impassively.
Her mouth opens in shock, the words that follow clipped and somewhat defensive. “It is…not.”
“Right,” he drawls, pocketing his phone, looking at me with an expression that says, ‘everything’s fine’. “And how is my lovely wife this morning?”
I square off my shoulders, pretending to be more interested in the stack of muffins nearby. “Fine.”
“Mmm. See, I knew you’d say that, which is why…” He reaches for a plate of food, drags back his chair, and rounds the table to where I’m sitting, placing it in front of me. “I thought this might make it feel better.”
Scowling, I peer down at the dish and then back at him. “Chef Nakamura’s nigiri? Really? You think this is going to make everything go away?” I sneer.
“As a matter of fact, I thought it will. Why? Is it not working?”
Frustration brings tension to my face, and I instinctively look at Victoria, whose wide eyes make me reconsider lashing out. I’d hate to make her feel uncomfortable, so I take a calming breath instead.
Hecannotbe serious.
“I thought the chef had retired,” I say, offering my husband a cold smile.
“Not for you, he hasn’t. I woke him up at gunpoint to make you breakfast.”
I quirk a brow. If his gesture wasn’t aimed at placating me, I would’ve maybe felt a little joy at the prospect of eating that nigiri again. But now...
“Thanks,” I say dryly, pushing the plate away, “but I’m not hungry. And if you’d thought harder about what I eat for breakfast, you’d have known to buy cinnamon rolls from Maya’s bakery in Alemont, not raw fish.”
