Anton pats Ilya’s knee. “I think I’ll go for a run. I’ve been sitting in a car for the past two days.”
He gets up and disappears into their bedroom. Ilya grabs the remote and switches on the television. I give it a moment before I slip into Yan’s room to take off the wig and scarf. The false eyelashes will have to stay until Yan has finished his shower and I can use the oil-based dissolvent I stored in the cabinet. I also applied silicon gel under a thick layer of foundation to make my cheekbones appear higher, and a cream that contains a small dose of bee venom to puff out my lips. They sting a little, feeling unnaturally tight, but the effect will soon vanish.
Going through the fridge, I take out ingredients for chicken paprikash and start dinner. For once, I’m hungry.
The silence is uncomfortable. When Anton leaves, I dare to approach Ilya, stopping short of the couch.
“Ilya, I owe you an apology.”
He ignores me.
“I didn’t want to deceive you, but there was no other way. I had to see my grandmother.”
He keeps his eyes trained on the television, pretending to be watching the news. “Spare me the excuses. I don’t care.”
I step between him and the TV. “I didn’t lie about coming back. I swear. I was waiting for the train when Yan found me.”
He cranes his neck to look around me. “If you say so.”
“Let me have a look at your nose. Did you try to set it straight?”
Silence.
“Ilya, please.”
He clicks off the television, stands, and goes to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
I can only hope he’ll come around in time. With a sigh, I go back to preparing dinner. It’s weird, this see-saw of energy and appetite. It was the same before, the first time I was diagnosed. The chemo lasted for twelve months. I lost all the hair on my body, including my eyebrows and eyelashes. My hair had barely grown back by the night I overheard Yan and Ilya in the bar. When they intercepted me in the alley, I had still been so weak. The nausea, the vomiting, it had utterly depleted me. There were days I didn’t have enough energy to get out of bed.
Making the most of my spurt of strength, I clean the kitchen and set the table. Dinner is almost ready when Yan comes out of the bedroom freshly showered and dressed in slacks and a tailored shirt.
He looks neat. Classy, like always. I’ve never seen him in comfy clothes.
“Do you always dress like that?” I ask.
He stalks toward me, caging me against the counter with his arms. “Why? Do you have a problem with it?”
He smells so good. I can’t get enough of that clean sandalwood scent with the spicy pepper undertone. “Don’t you ever want to relax, just lie around in sweatpants and a T-shirt?”
“No.”
“I see.”
He drags a thumb over my lip, no doubt smearing my lipstick. “Go wash your face.” He almost sounds angry.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like you as someone else.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I slip around him and hurry to the room.
“Mina.”
I turn in the door.
His frosted gaze is piercing. “You’d tell me if you went to Budapest for a different reason, wouldn’t you?”
The air leaves my lungs, my chest deflating. “You know why I went.” It takes great effort to keep a poker face with him. With other people, it’s second nature, but Yan can cut me open with a single look.
He studies me, missing nothing. “Just checking.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No. Go.”
Beyond grateful, I close the door on his invasive stare and take a few deep breaths. He doesn’t know. It’s only his suspicion. He can’t know.
Still, my hunger vanishes. Suddenly feeling depleted, I get rid of the disguise, clean everything, and put it back in the case. After washing my face, I go back to the lounge where a brooding Yan and Ilya sit on opposite sides of the table.
Yan pulls out the chair next to him. “Sit.”
I walk over and sit down as I’m ordered. Yan gets up and brings the pots from the stove to the table. Ignoring Ilya, he dishes up some for me before helping himself. When Yan digs into his food, Ilya grabs the serving spoon with a grunt. His gaze rests accusingly on his brother as he dumps a portion of rice and chicken on his plate.
Our meal takes place in strained silence. I’m pushing the food around on my plate, managing only a few bites.
“Not hungry?” Yan asks, glancing at my untouched food.
I shift in my seat. “No.”
Ilya huffs. “She must’ve lost her appetite when she came out of the room and saw you.”
Yan turns a steely gaze on Ilya. “Did I ask for your opinion?”
Leaning back, Ilya stretches out his legs. “You’re getting it anyway.”
“If you know what’s good for you,” Yan says through tight lips, “you’ll put a cork in it.”
“If you grow tired of his pretty face, you know where my room is,” Ilya says to me.
The crockery rattles as Yan slams a fist on the table. “I’m warning you.”
“Please, Ilya.” I lean over and touch his arm. “Cut it out.”
“You”—Yan’s tone is clipped as he glares at me—“don’t get to say anything.”
Ilya grins. “Touché.” He turns to me. “The truth is, I have a bigger dick.”
A glass of water falls over as Yan jumps to his feet.
Ilya is up, too. He rounds the table, putting himself in Yan’s way. “I took your beating because I deserved it. This time, I won’t let you win.”
“Yan! Ilya!” I push back my chair, almost stumbling in my rush to stand. “Stop it.”
Yan grabs the front of Ilya’s T-shirt in a fist. “Go for it, moron. Give it your best shot.”
Squeezing myself between the two men, I push on their chests. “Break it
