Chapter 11 Petyr
PETYR
Just tell me what will it take for you to let me out of here, and I’ll do it.
For a second there, I almost thought she meant it.
But she was just manipulating me again.
I need to get this shit tattooed on the inside of my fucking eyelids: Sima Danilo cannot be trusted. I’ve learned that the hard way, and I’ll be damned if I ever forget.
Then I feel it: a soft, muted thump against my palm.
I go still. My eyes widen before I can stop them. I forget how to breathe. How to move at all.
When I look up, Sima’s gaze meets mine. Her eyes are wide like mine, glassy and dark with emotion, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
She’s so fucking beautiful. Even now, I can’t stop looking. She’s as gorgeous as the day I met her. More, even, now that she’s pregnant by me. Absolutely stunning. Enough to almost make me forget that I’m not supposed to fall under her spell.
But it’s not her spell I’m under now.
“Is that…?”
Sima gives a small nod. I don’t have to finish that sentence. She understands what I’m asking.
My mouth opens, then closes again. I can’t force anything out. I only stare at her, then down where my hand rests. The weight of this moment presses against me heavier than anything I’ve carried in months.
We stand frozen, locked together by the small, certain thump between us.
My child. No—our child.
I’m still angry with her. I can still feel the heat of our fight on my skin. But now, something else is taking up the space.
I look at Sima. Her hand is still on the back of mine. It’s pressing me down against her stomach, determined to make me feel it. Her eyes search mine, sharp but uncertain, as if she’s trying to see whether I’ll shove her away or admit what we both just felt.
I should yank free. I should throw her words back at her.
She’s a liar. She ran away. Even now, she keeps testing me at every turn. She doesn’t deserve this moment with me.
But I don’t move. My hand stays where she put it, heavy and clumsy, as the faint kick brushes against me again.
The sound of my own breathing fills the room. I drag air in slowly, force it out, but the rhythm is uneven. I can fight with her, but I sure as fuck can’t fight this.
“Feel that?” she asks quietly. “That’s our baby girl.”
My throat works around a reply that never comes. I nod once, curt, because I can’t trust my voice not to betray me.
I think of the men I’ve killed, the blood I’ve shed tonight. For the past three days, I’ve kept Sima in this room like a prisoner. If she thinks I'm a monster, she isn’t that far off the mark.
But none of it matters in this instant. What matters is the thump against my palm. Proof of life. Of legacy. All my choices, even the bad ones, led to this.
Our baby.
I want to pull away, but I can’t. Not yet. My fingers flex against her without meaning to, as if holding onto the moment will make it last longer.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. Neither does mine. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t.
Finally, I meet her gaze again and realize how close we are. If I bent my head the smallest bit, my mouth would find hers.
I remember the taste of her lips, the heat of her skin under my hands. Nights when I had her without question, without fear she would slip away.
A slight tremor runs through my hand as I keep it still on her stomach. Every part of me wants to let it slide higher. Over her ribs, to her half-unbuttoned blouse.
I want to finish the job. Strip her bare, remind her that she’s mine. That she belongs to me.
I crave her. Fuck me, I want her. Want to hear her gasping for me, moaning my name for the whole house to hear.
My body reacts to those thoughts before I can stop it. Within seconds, I’m rock-hard. My hands ache to hold her down, show her exactly what she’s doing to me.
For a heartbeat, I almost do it.
She knows what I’m thinking—because she’s thinking it. I can read it on her face, plain as fucking day: She wants me, too.
But if I let myself have her—if I let her have me—then I’m done for.
So I stop. I drag myself back before I can do something I know I’ll regret.
My hand falls away from her stomach. The skin of my palm feels cold the second it leaves her.
I step back. My fists clench at my sides. I cannot let myself give in. Not now. Not when she already slipped through my fingers once.
The memory of that loss is still fresh. I tried to bury it, but it never left. I barely lived through it then. I would not survive it again.
The hunger does not ease, though. It pounds in me, steady and merciless. I want her, and I always will.
But I will not take what I cannot trust. I will not hand her another weapon to use against me.
So I turn back, walk out the door, and lock it behind me.