Chapter 25 Petyr
PETYR
The drive back is long, and all I can think about is her.
I picture walking into the room and finding her waiting in my bed. I think about stripping her down, spreading her open, fucking her until she’s crying my name again.
The wheel is steady under my hands, but my mind isn’t. Every mile closer makes me harder. I want her naked. On her knees. Pinned under me until she remembers exactly who she belongs to.
By the time I pull through the gates, I’m ready to throw everyone else in the house out just to have her to myself. The business is done. The war can wait.
All I want is her.
But when I get upstairs, I can feel it. It’s my pakhan instinct, prickling at the back of my neck.
Something’s wrong.
I push into the bedroom. The lights are low, the sheets pulled back. No sign of Sima anywhere.
For a second, my stomach drops all the way to the floor. Every bad thought I’ve ever had about her running, someone getting to her—it all rushes in at once.
Then I hear it. A sound from the bathroom. Harsh, raw, echoing against tile.
She’s in there. She’s throwing up.
Relief cuts in, but it’s short-lived. One fear replaced with another.
It doesn’t make sense for Sima to get sick this late in the pregnancy. Morning sickness doesn’t last the whole nine months. And it’s nowhere near morning anyway.
I cross the room fast, shove the door with my knuckles.
Locked.
“Sima?” I knock. The sound comes softer than I expected. “Is everything alright?”
More gagging. Water splashing. The toilet flushes. A long pause, then a groan.
Her voice is weak, rough at the edges. “Um. N-Not really.”
I press my forehead against the door. For a second, I just listen. She’s breathing unevenly, her movements jerky as she drags herself from one corner of the bathroom to another. She’s probably bracing herself against the counter.
Fuck, she sounds miserable. All that heat I carried from the car, the hunger, it’s gone in an instant. Replaced with a knot in my gut I don’t like.
“Open the door,” I tell her.
No answer.
“Sima.” My tone turns commanding. “Let me see you.”
Again—silence.
I curl my hand into a fist against the wood and fight the urge to smash the lock. She’s in there, sick as hell, and I’m standing outside like an idiot. I don’t like it. Not one fucking bit.
Then, suddenly, I hear the lock unlatching.
I push the door open and find her on the floor. “Sima.”
She’s curled up in a ball against the wall, arms wrapped tight around her middle. Her skin is pale, damp with sweat. Strands of hair stick to her forehead. Her breathing is shallow and uneven.
My stomach turns cold. This isn’t what I expected. Not her like this.
I drop to a crouch next to her, press my hand to her face. She’s burning hot. Fever-hot. I feel it instantly against my palm.
“What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
She groans, a low sound, and doesn’t lift her head. Her arms stay locked around her belly like she’s holding herself together, trying to keep something from tearing loose.
I hate seeing her like this. I’m supposed to be the one who fixes things, who keeps her safe, and here she is on the goddamn floor while I stand there useless.
“Is it the baby?”
Sima’s eyes are glassy. Like she’s only half-here.
I shake her shoulder. Not hard, just enough to make her look at me. “Sima, tell me. Is something wrong with the baby?”
She groans again and turns her face away. Sweat beads along her temple. She doesn’t answer me, just keeps making pained sounds like it’s all she can bring herself to do.
My mind flashes through every fucked up scenario at once. Miscarriage. Early labor. Infection. I don’t know what the fuck it is, and not knowing is worse.
I put my hand over hers where it’s pressed against her belly. “Sima. Look at me. I need you to tell me what hurts. Is it cramps? Your stomach? The baby?”
Her eyelids flutter. She whispers something I can’t catch, then swallows hard and curls tighter around herself.
My gut twists. This isn’t just her feeling off. This is bad. Real fucking bad.
I press my other hand to her forehead again. The heat rolling off her makes me grind my teeth. She’s way too sick. And if it touches the baby—
No. I can’t even finish that thought.
I won’t let it happen. Neither one of them is going to slip through my fingers.
Not while I’m still here.
“You need a hospital.”
Sima shakes her head weakly, still curled up on the floor. “No. Maybe it’s just something I ate.” Her voice is thin, broken, like every syllable takes too much effort. “I’ll be fine.”
“Bullshit.” I slide my arm under her shoulders, another under her knees. “I’m not risking you. Or the baby. You’re seeing a doctor.”
She makes a small sound of protest, but it’s weak. She doesn’t fight me when I lift her. She feels lighter than she should. Too light.
The heat of her body burns through my shirt. Sima’s head falls against my chest. Her hair sticks to my neck with sweat. I can feel how much she’s trembling. Each shiver goes straight through me.
“This isn’t nothing,” I mutter against her hair. “You’re burning up.”
Her head shifts, like she’s trying to shake me off, but she doesn’t have the strength. “I don’t… need a hospital.”
“You’re going. End of story.”
I carry her out of the bathroom and down the hall. My steps are fast, controlled, but inside I’m boiling. She’s too limp in my arms. Her eyes don’t focus properly. Her fingers keep clawing weakly at my shirt. She’s hanging on by a thread, and all she cares about is not being a burden.
Fuck that. She’s my wife. I’ll take care of her if it kills me.
I kick the bedroom door wider, start down the stairs. My phone is already at my ear.
“Luka,” I bark the second he answers, “meet me at the front with the car. Now. We’re going to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” he asks. “Is something wrong with—”
“Don’t talk,” I cut him off. “Just be there.”
I shove the phone back in my pocket. Sima groans again, clutches weakly at her stomach. My grip tightens around her until she’s secure against me.
“Hang on,” I tell her. “I’ve got you. Just hang on.”