Chapter 16 - Sima
SIMA
To be honest, I don’t really expect him to answer. Petyr is the world champion of ignoring what he doesn’t want to hear. Acting like my words mean nothing would be nothing new in the Gubarev playbook.
That’s not fair. He apologized.
Guilt fills me. I grip my Kindle harder. I admit I wasn’t expecting that—for him to admit he wronged me. Petyr Gubarev never makes mistakes. He’s always right, and if he’s not, it’s everybody else who’s wrong.
I wonder what would have happened if he’d told me those words earlier. Before I took off. Back when we could still fix this.
Maybe things would be different now.
But they’re not.
No, they aren’t.
And I’m still waiting for an answer to my question.
Finally, Petyr’s voice comes, low and steady. “I did.” He doesn’t sound apologetic now, not in the slightest. “We both know he deserved it.”
I don’t know why I’m hurt. Deep down, I already knew.
I close my eyes and draw in a breath that doesn’t come easy, then let it out slowly.
Things couldn’t have ended any other way. Anatoli himself told me what he was planning. He said he would use Lev’s betrayal to ambush Petyr, then finish him. I warned Petyr, but I didn’t know if he had taken my words seriously.
When he found me later, strong and alive, I knew what that meant. My brother had to be dead.
I don’t regret that Petyr is the one who lived. Far from that.
But I still wish there could have been another way.
“I know,” I say at last, my voice almost a whisper. “You’re right.”
My brother chose the life he lived. He was cruel. Dangerous. It was only ever going to end one way for him.
My chest tightens with something I can’t name at first.
It’s not anger. Not surprise, either. It feels closer to grief, but a sticky sort of grief that doesn’t have anywhere to go. Not for the brother I knew, but for the possibility of what he could have been if he’d chosen differently.
I remember the first time I realized he liked to hurt things just to see them cry out.
His voice sounded like a sneer when he told me that “the butterflies barely even feel it when you rip their wings off; what do you care?” And he looked at me like I was the idiot, the burden, like he would rather see me married off as a child bride than share the same roof with another useless girl.
He never let me forget that he had power and I didn’t. He was our father’s pride and I was disposable.
A part of me wanted to hate him. Most days, I did. When he bullied Maksim, when he was cruel to Lara and me, I despised him.
But blood is still blood.
That’s what aches now. Even knowing how vicious he became, I still wanted him to be someone else. Deep down, I never stopped hoping he could be the kind of brother I so desperately needed.
“I wish things had been different for him,” I admit. “I wish he could have been someone else. Someone better. But he wasn’t. He never even tried to be.”
“Were you close?” Petyr asks. “You and your brother?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not really ever. Anatoli and I could barely exchange two words without fighting. He’d cut me down before I even opened my mouth. He made sure I knew my place in the family. Still—”
I swallow hard.
“Still, you wish he was different,” Petyr fills in for me.
I nod weakly. “I do. I can’t help it. If he’d had even a shred of kindness in him… If Dad ever taught him any… Maybe things wouldn’t have ended the way they did.”
I lift my eyes to Petyr. His face is shadowed in the firelight, unreadable. He watches me for a long moment, then asks, “What about your other siblings? You have two other brothers and a sister. Were you close?”
“Kind of,” I whisper. “Maksim is the closest to me in age, but it was probably Lara I was closest to. My sister.”
His head tilts, his eyes narrowing a little. “Are you still close?”
I’m not sure what he thinks I’m gonna say. Does he believe I might be passing notes with her about Gubarev secrets through messenger pigeons or who the fuck knows what?
I shake my head. “No. Lara was married off to one of my father’s associates when she was eighteen. She left, and I never saw her again.”
The fire pops, a sharp crackle that fills the quiet.
Memories crowd in before I can stop them. Lara brushing my hair when I was little, humming songs under her breath. Sneaking sweets into my pocket when no one was looking. Slipping into my room at night to whisper stories when Father’s shouting downstairs kept me awake.
She was gentleness personified in a house that had none of it, soft and kind in ways that made me believe the world outside our walls might hold something better.
The day she left is burned into me. I watched her walk out of the front door in a pale dress, her skin paler still. Her face was calm, but her eyes weren’t.
I wanted to run to her, grab her hand, beg her not to go. But I couldn’t. I was only twelve. I just stood still while the car door closed and carried her away.
And that was it. She vanished into someone else’s life, and mine was emptier for it.
Petyr’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Do you miss her?”
My throat tightens as I nod. “Every day.”
I miss the way she tried to shield me. She made me laugh when everything else felt heavy. That was more of a blessing than either of us ever realized.
“I’m sorry,” Petyr says. For once, he sounds genuine. “That can’t be easy.”
I blink hard into the fire. ”Sometimes I wonder if she’s safe. If she’s happy. Or if her life turned out to be…” The same as mine, I’m about to say, but stop myself and say instead, “… less than what she deserved.”
If Petyr understands what I’m thinking, he doesn’t show it. “How long ago did she leave?”
“Almost thirteen years ago.” My throat closes up. ”I hate that I never got to say goodbye properly. She just left, and the world swallowed her whole.”
That’s what happens to women in the Bratva world. Our brothers fight wars, our fathers strike deals, and we women are the ones left to live with the consequences.
I know if things stay the same, it will happen to me, too.
And then one day, it will happen to my daughter.
Petyr leans closer. His hand lifts to cup my face. His palm is rough and warm against my cheek.
My breath stalls. He tilts my chin until my eyes meet his, like he’s searching for something buried deep in me. Truth, lies, anything he can use.
“Petyr…”
Then his mouth is on mine.
I should pull away. God, I know I should. Everything between us is already ruined, twisted up in threats and betrayals and the mess we’ve made of each other. Another step down this path can only lead to more pain.
I tell myself all that, but I don’t stop kissing him, and truth be told, I never really consider stopping.
Because it’s been so long. Too long.
The first brush of his lips is enough to unravel me. Heat sparks low in my stomach. It spreads fast and steals any scrap of reason.
I clutch at him without thinking. My hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him back.
“Wait,” I manage between breaths. “We can’t—”
His hand slides to the back of my neck. He silences me with another fierce kiss.
I don’t fight it. I sink into it.
I taste him. Familiar. Overwhelming. Every nerve in me screams that I need this, that I’ve needed it since the night I left.
My body remembers what my mind wants to forget. His mouth, his scent, the solid weight of him pressing me close. It floods me, raw and all-consuming.
Still, guilt claws its way in underneath the rush.
This is wrong. He locked me in this room. He swore he’d take my child if I defied him. He’s the reason I feel trapped. And still I can’t stop kissing him back. I keep craving the only touch I’ve ever felt safe enough to drown in.
The contradiction is awful, but it’s nowhere near enough to make me let go.
His teeth catch my lip, my nails scrape at his chest.
I want him. I hate that I want him. And I can’t stop.
Then suddenly, he pulls back.
The space between us snaps wide open. My lips part, my body still leaning forward, hungry for what’s already gone.
“Petyr…” I breathe for the second time, not even sure what I mean to say.
He doesn’t answer. He just turns, strides to the door, and leaves me sitting there, burning with want and shame all at once.
When he’s gone, I press trembling fingers to my mouth. My chest heaves, my heart slams, and every thought tangles into a knot of anger, longing, and despair.
I hate myself for wanting more.