Chapter 9 Sima
SIMA
It takes precisely three days before I’m ready to start climbing the walls.
I’ve already measured the distance between the dresser and the window ledge to see if it’s doable. Unless I became an Olympic high jumper overnight, which I didn’t, it is not. And even if I was—which, to reiterate, I’m not—I think the dresser would topple and collapse under my pregnancy weight.
Meanwhile, my anxiety never shuts up. And when I say never, I do mean never. Sleep is a cruel rumor now that I don’t have an outlet to burn off my energy.
Usually, dogs at least get a backyard. I guess that puts me lower on the totem pole than the house pets, then.
The solitude is pretty much as bad as the anxiety. When the housekeeper brings my meals, I’m almost glad to see her.
Well, almost.
Anya is somewhere between sixty and immortal, and she hasn’t exactly warmed up to me in the time I’ve been away. She’s elevated judgmental silence to an art form, and she’s the Picasso of it. Pursed lips if I ask too much, a grunt if she’s feeling generous. The scowl is everpresent.
I’ve tried every angle to break through the ice queen facade. Begging. Bargaining. Nothing cracks her. The woman’s a stone-faced vault that smells faintly of bleach and cabbage.
“Good morning, Anya!” I say when she enters with breakfast. “Or is it afternoon? Hard to tell when your jailer doesn’t believe in clocks.”
She sets the tray down without comment.
“Say, is Mr. Rochester still here?” I ask. “Or did he haul his ass to the penthouse so he wouldn’t hear his Bertha scream?”
My literary references fall on deaf ears, but I’m used to an audience of none by now.
“Come on. One word. Blink twice if he’s dead, once if he’s still stomping around being terrifying.”
Anya stares at me until I sigh.
“You’re no fun,” I mutter with a stab at the lump of porridge she’s left me. “I hope you at least spit in this.”
Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
God, it’s hard being the funniest person on Planet Gubarev.
She waits for me to finish pretending to eat. Once I’m done, she walks to the door, tray balanced on one hand, and disappears.
That’s the routine. Food in, food out. No conversation, no updates. As for Petyr? I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t just dream him up.
I haven’t seen him since the first night, when he shoved me in here and locked the door. Every time I ask Anya to send for him, she just stares until I give up.
My phone is gone, too. Confiscated before I could even text anyone. Which I suppose was the point. Can’t even doomscroll on TikTok until my brain turns to mush now.
I tried to convince Anya to sneak it back to me on the first day. No dice. I would have had better luck asking for a teaspoon of cyanide with breakfast.
But she did give in to something. Just one thing.
“Who does a girl have to kill to get a book around here?” I asked.
To my shock and awe, she came back that very afternoon with a stack so dry I almost choked on the dust. Histories of shipping routes. Trade ledgers. There was even a memoir by some long-dead Soviet bureaucrat who thought he was important enough to write about his life pushing papers for Stalin.
Joke’s on her: I skimmed the lot in half a day. I am now way more knowledgeable than I ever thought I’d get about perestroika and glasnost.
When Anya came to pick up the trays later, I tried again. “Next time, maybe something with actual dialogue? A romance would be nice. I’ll even take a bodice-ripper. I’m not picky.”
Anya’s reply: a single grunt.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She didn’t return with a romance—she returned with a two-volume biography of a czar who spent most of his reign sick in bed. I almost hurled it at the wall but decided I might need it later to brain a guard.
So, with nothing but bad literature and worse company, I spend my hours plotting. Escape, obviously. Bet Petyr will regret not splurging on a Barnes & Noble haul once I’m in the wind with his stupid sick czar book.
He thinks he can lock me up through my pregnancy like we’re in some Victorian novel? Please. If I ever get out of this room, he’ll learn exactly how dangerous boredom makes me.
In the meantime, Anya gets the joy of my sparkling company, whether she wants it or not.
I watch her day after day. She’s remarkably consistent. Same time, same scowl. She doesn’t linger, never slips up.
Bet I could make her, though.
That’s when the idea comes. Desperate? Sure. But so am I, and I can’t sit here waiting for a miracle crack in her routine. Knowing her, it’ll be her funeral, some hundred-odd years from now.
So I might as well do it tonight.
When she comes to collect my dinner tray, I put the plan in motion. “Hold on,” I say.
Then I stack my dirty laundry on top of the dishes. Socks, nightgown, even the blanket I’ve been sweating through.
“Do me a favor and wash these, will you? The smell is starting to haunt me.”
Anya shoots me her usual pursed-lips look. She doesn’t argue, which for once I’m grateful for.
I plow ahead and start piling the books on top of the laundry. “And these, too. I’m done. Consider me fully educated in the riveting history of Baltic shipping lanes.”
By the time she balances everything in her arms, she looks like a human tower. The tray wobbles, the blanket slides. I watch the book obelisk threaten to topple twice.
She barely manages to step through the door and pull it shut behind her without dropping the whole load. When she’s gone, I freeze and wait for the familiar clunk of the lock. The sound that usually seals me back in my cage.
But it doesn’t come.
It. Doesn’t. Come.
Her footsteps creak down the hall, slow and steady, and then fade away. I don’t give myself time to think. If I think, I’ll lose my nerve.
And that’s the one thing I can’t afford to lose.
I shove the door open and slip into the hall. My bare feet are ninja quiet on the wood, but my pulse is pounding so hard I’m sure it’s loud enough to give me away.
I press close to the wall and move down the corridor. The urge to look back claws at me, but I force myself to fight it. No time for sentiment while running away from Bly Manor.
On the third step, the staircase creaks under me.
I freeze, count to ten, then keep going.
Every second, I expect a shout. A hand coming to yank me back into oblivion.
But nothing happens, so I keep going.
At the bottom, the kitchen smells like garlic. Odd for a house of likely vampires, but I don’t have the luxury of dwelling on that rich comedic gold mine. There will be plenty of time to crack jokes once I’m halfway across the globe.
The nightlight above the stove throws a weak glow. I slip past it. My palms are slick against the wall as I steady myself.
The driveway stretches ahead. The garage door is only a few steps away. On the wall, the peg board of keys.
My throat is dry as I scan the rows. Luxury cars, sports cars—completely useless. I need something plain.
Finally, my eyes land on a black fob that looks like it belongs to an SUV. I grab it. My hand shakes. I squeeze until the keys dig into my skin.
The clink sounds too loud. I hold my breath and brace myself for footsteps.
Silence.
I edge toward the garage door.
Just one more push and I’ll be outside. Free. My legs feel weak, but I force them to move.
Outside, the faint lick of fresh air is enough to make me grin from ear to ear. This is it, I realize with a thrill. I’m going to make it.
Then a movement out the corner of my eye freezes me in place.
A figure stands in the doorway. Broad shoulders, tall frame. For a second, it almost looks like Petyr.
But it’s not.
It’s Luka.
“Sima.” He blocks the path, arms crossed.
Of course. My one chance, and Mr. Antacid just so happens to be standing right there.
Luka steps into the light. His face is tight, colder than I’ve ever seen it. It takes me aback how disappointed he looks right now.
Because that’s not normal, is it?
Angry would make sense. Sad, even. But disappointed?
He closes the space between us in two strides and snatches the keys out of my hand. “I’ll take these.”
I don’t fight him. My throat works around a swallow. We used to be friendly when he was assigned to watch me, but nothing about him is friendly now.
“Please follow me upstairs.” His tone is formal but final.
I hesitate. “Luka, wait. You don’t have to do this.” My voice cracks, more desperate than I want it to sound. “Just turn around. Pretend you didn’t see me. No one has to know.”
I realize I’m begging, but right now, I’m not so sure I care.
He shakes his head once. “I can’t do that. You know I can’t.”
Suddenly, guilt floods me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For before. When I ran and locked you in that closet. I shouldn’t have done that. It was an emergency. I needed to go then, and I need to go now. Please can you just forgive me and—?”
He cuts me off with a harsh shake of his head. “Don’t. You don’t get to apologize to me.” His fists ball tight at his sides. “Petyr could have killed me because of what you did. You ran while you were under my protection. Do you understand that?”
Shame twists inside me. He’s right, and we both know it.
“Luka,” I whisper, “I’m so sorry. I really—”
“I said don’t apologize,” Luka cuts me off. “Now that I know who you are, it makes sense.” His growl turns low, bitter. “You’re a Danilo. Not to be trusted. Must run in the family.”
“You can’t say that,” I object. “You don’t know that—”
“Yes, I can.” His eyes meet mine, hard. “The Danilos killed my whole family. So don’t tell me what I can or can’t say. I do know. I won’t make the mistake of trusting you again.”
I thought I was feeling guilty before, but hearing that makes it a thousand times worse. It makes me feel like a criminal. Like I pulled the trigger with my own two hands.
My family killed his. It sounds so wrong. The Danilos. My blood.
Suddenly, I see Luka pull out his phone. His thumbs move quickly over the screen.
“Who are you texting?” I ask, terrified.
“Petyr, of course.”
“No,” I blurt. “Please. You don’t have to—”
“I do.” Luka doesn’t look at me. His jaw is set, his eyes fixed on the screen.
Moments later, footsteps sound heavy down the hall.
Petyr appears, broad and furious. His presence fills the space. His eyes cut straight to me, then to Luka, then back again.
“She left her room,” Luka explains flatly.
Petyr’s hand clamps hard around my arm before I can speak. His grip is iron, his pace brutal as he drags me back down the corridor.
I stumble to keep up. “Petyr, I—”
“Quiet.” He doesn’t slow, doesn’t so much as look at me. His fingers dig into my arm all the way up, until we’re back at the locked door.
He shoves me inside and follows me in, then bolts the door behind him.
And I realize, all of a sudden, how badly I just fucked up.