Chapter 15 - Petyr
PETYR
The engine hums under me as I cut through the streets.
I’m uneasy. I just cut a deal for billions, and yet Misha’s words won’t leave my head.
He said Nikolai Danilo is already here. The old man himself.
If he came, he came for his daughter. For the child she carries. To drag them back into his fold and spit in my face while he does it.
Like fuck am I ever gonna let him.
My grip on the wheel tightens until the leather creaks. I picture Nikolai reaching for her, and my chest locks up. The thought alone makes me want to rip the steering column apart.
If Nikolai wants to test me, let him. I’ll show exactly what kind of man his daughter married.
She’s mine whether she wants to be or not. She gave me a child. That tie doesn’t break, not for anyone. Certainly not for her shitty family.
I roll down the windows. Cold night air slips through, but it does nothing to clear my head.
I can still see her pressing my hand on her stomach, forcing me to feel our baby kick. That moment branded itself into me. It proved that what she carries is mine, and so is she.
By the time I pull through the gates and cut the engine, my jaw feels wired shut.
The image of Nikolai Danilo reaching for Sima won’t leave my head.
I picture his hand closing around her wrist, his voice claiming rights he doesn’t have.
He treated her like shit, but he’d demand her back in a heartbeat.
Just like you did.
“Shut up.” I silence my conscience. “Everything I did, I did for her.”
I get out and head straight for the stairs. They creak beneath me. This house is well-kept, but the bones are old. You can’t sand down history, or sweep away the ghosts that live in the walls.
It was never meant to be mine. That reminder sometimes sneaks up on me. This was Dimitri’s house. His throne, his future with Kira. When I took the seat, it was by necessity, not design. This mansion just happened to be part of the deal.
I tell myself I earned it in blood, but it still feels borrowed. A place I’m occupying, not one I was meant to rule from.
But for how long am I occupying it? Dimitri is awake. One day, he could be whole again. Strong enough to stand where I stand.
I’ve wished for that more times than I can count.
But if he makes a full recovery… what then?
For months, I’ve refused to think about it. The war doesn’t give me the luxury of imagining a future where I hand it all back to him. And yet the question lingers, sharp and unwelcome.
Would he demand his throne back from me?
Would he thank me or treat me like a usurper?
If it served to end the war, would he give Sima back to her family?
I push it all aside. Not tonight. My mind is too tangled for this. Right now, I don’t need to pile up more hypotheticals on my plate. I need clarity.
Most of all, I need to see her.
I climb the last steps and pause at the landing. The hallway stretches long, lined with closed doors, shadows heavy at the edges.
My feet carry me toward Sima’s door.
The lock is solid, the key cool against my palm. I stand there a moment and listen. The silence behind it is thick.
She’s in there, close enough to touch, yet always at a distance I can’t cross. Even when I do.
I breathe in, deep and steady. The anger from Misha’s remarks still pulses in me, but what sits heavier is something else. That same unease I drove back home with.
Nikolai. The Danilos. Whatever plan they hatched to get Sima back.
Over my dead fucking body.
I fit the key into the lock and turn it. The bolt slides back with a dull click.
My hand lingers on the knob for a second. Two.
Then I twist it open.
The door gives way with a low groan. I step inside, strain my eyes in the dim orange glow of the fireplace across the room. The air is warmer here, heavy with burnt wood and the faint trace of her perfume.
I expect to see her in bed. I cross the floor slowly, eyes fixed on the covers.
But when I reach there, the sheets are flat.
A jolt of panic spikes through me. My hand shoots to the bedframe. My mind spins. I twist my head around, but she’s nowhere.
She’s gone.
My chest pounds. My throat feels dry, and the pressure in my head builds until I can barely think. Fury and fear twist together.
I fucking knew it. I wasn’t here to watch over her, and now, she’s on the run again. I told myself this would happen. And now, I’ve proven myself right.
I’m about to yell for the guards when—
“Lose something?”
I whip my head toward the sound…
… and there she is.
Sima.
She’s curled into the chair by the fire, knees drawn up. Her e-reader glows faintly in her hands.
The relief that hits me is violent. I cover it fast and force my face back into a neutral expression. I won’t let her see me shaken.
I take her in. Her hair is pulled back, but strands have slipped free around her face. The firelight glints against them. Her skin looks pale in the glow, and there are shadows under her eyes. She looks tired, worn down, but still beautiful.
Her lips part as she watches me, and I feel the pull in my chest.
I crush it down. “I came to check if you need anything.”
She lifts her eyes, slow and unimpressed. “Since when did the warden start making his own nightly rounds?”
“I’m not your warden.”
“Right.” Her mouth twists faintly. ”Just the man with the keys.”
I hold her stare and fight the urge to snap. “I had electronics sent up. I thought you’d appreciate them.”
“I do,” she admits. “Thanks for the Kindle. Though I’d like to trade the TV for a pair of running shoes.”
My brow lifts. “Running shoes?”
“Even convicts get yard time. Exercise, sunshine, a chance not to go insane.” She flips another page, eyes still on me. “Or is cardio too much of a security risk?”
“Again: I am not a warden and you are not a prisoner.”
“Right,” she scoffs. “Tell that to the locks.”
The fireplace crackles. It softens a silence I don’t know how to fill.
Part of me wants to tell her she’s wrong, that I’m not holding her prisoner. The other part knows it’s exactly what I’m doing.
I have to, I remind myself. If she had the chance, she’d run again.
And I can’t let that happen.
Sima shifts in her chair. The top button of her pajama has come undone, and as she moves, the fabric falls just enough to reveal the soft curve of her breast.
Heat stirs low in me. I curl up my fists and force myself to breathe through my nose. My hand twitches at my side. I should leave this room. Better to walk out than say something I’ll regret. Or worse, do.
But before I can turn, her voice cuts through the quiet. “I heard about your brother.”
I freeze.
Slowly, I look back at her. She’s still curled in the chair, the e-reader limp on her lap now. Her eyes search mine.
“Kira told me he woke up. From the coma.” She draws a slow breath. “I just… I’m glad. I know how much he means to you.”
The room feels smaller all at once. I grip the back of the closest chair to ground myself. She’s right. Dimitri matters more than anything to me. He always has.
“Yeah,” I say finally, my voice rough. “He’s awake.”
She just nods and looks back down at her lap.
I draw a slow breath. “I owe you an apology.”
Her head lifts. She looks at me, uncertain.
“I didn’t believe you when you swore you had nothing to do with the attempt on my brother’s life,” I murmur. “I accused you without proof and treated you like a traitor. That was a mistake.”
Her eyes widen, as if she’s waiting for the catch. When I don’t say anything else, she straightens up a little.
I brace myself for a blow. For her to twist this moment into something sharp.
Maybe she won’t do that, though. She might choose to plead and bargain instead.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she asks me a question.
“Did you kill him?”
“What?” For a second, I think she means my brother. But that wouldn’t make any sense. We just established he’s alive, and she said she’s glad for it. “Who are you talking about?”
“Did you kill my brother? Did you kill Anatoli?”