I press my hand to my mouth, unable to speak.
“Cassandra.” Matvei takes a breath. “Do you remember what I said to you in an alley, the night I met you?”
I shake my head, not because I don’t remember, but because I want to hear him say it again.
“I said,” he goes on, “that no one can claim you for themselves in this world. Only you can choose to give yourself away. That’s still true.” His thumb runs over the worn velvet of the box. “No one will ever own you. Not him. Not me. Not anyone. But, dikarka—if you choose to give yourself away… then give yourself to me.”
From inside, muffled through the brick, cousin Sal’s Bluetooth speaker swaps Lizzo for an old Otis Redding song. The world, on cue, slows and quiets.
I drop into a crouch in front of him, knees bumping his knee, my hands cupped
