Chapter 28 Sima
SIMA
I wake to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, quick. More than one set.
I drag myself upright. The house is never loud at this hour. Unless Petyr is home, it’s like living in a mausoleum. Ghosts are more likely to make a ruckus than Anya here. Or, God forbid, Little Miss Perfect, Kira.
But these aren’t ghosts. Or a dream. It’s not ordinary.
My gut tells me something’s wrong.
I turn to look at the clock on the nightstand. 3 A.M. He should have been back hours ago. He always has business at night, granted, but this late? It’s not normal. If he’d been planning to stay out this long, he would have told me.
The steps move past my door and down the corridor toward the stairs. A cold weight settles in my stomach.
My hands start to shake around the duvet. Something is wrong. I can tell before I even move.
I push back the blankets and sit up. The floor is cold under my feet, but I hardly notice. My pulse beats hard against my ribs. A million apocalyptic scenarios push into my mind, each one worse than the last.
I pull my robe around me and walk to the door.
The hallway lights are dim. I stop and listen. Voices drift up from downstairs, low and tense. There are several of them.
I can’t make out the words, but the sound alone tells me enough. I know an emergency Bratva summit when I hear one. I’ve grown up being woken by this same exact situation, and it was never good.
Once, when I was little, I made the mistake of wandering downstairs on a night just like this. Dad was standing in the hallway. He had a gun in his hand. I was so young, I thought he must have gotten back from a hunting trip.
Then I saw the body on the floor.
“What’s wrong with him?”
That’s when Dad finally noticed me.
“Go back to your room,” is all he said to me.
I didn’t listen.
“But Dad, he’s hurt! He—”
I remember the sting of his palm on my cheek.
“Get her out of the way,” he snapped at my mother when she came rushing in to see what the noise was about. “What the hell is the point of you if you can’t even keep track of your kids, woman?”
She brought me back upstairs with tears in her eyes.
I never wandered downstairs again after dark.
Now, I hesitate in the doorway. I know I should stay in the room and let them handle it. That would be the smart choice.
But I can’t do that, not when he still isn’t home. I need to know what is going on.
I’m not a little girl anymore.
I take a deep breath and step into the hall. The voices get clearer as I move closer to the stairs. I recognize Luka’s, sharp and clipped, and Mikhael’s deeper tone beside it. They never sound like this unless something serious has happened.
At the top of the stairs, I grip the banister and lean forward to listen. I can’t catch every word, but one stands out clearly.
“—chest wound.”
My body goes rigid. I freeze at the top of the stairs.
Petyr.
Before I can think, I’m already moving.
I hold the railing tight as I hurry down the stairs. My heart beats so fast it hurts. Each step feels plodding and slow.
I have to see what’s happening. If he’s hurt, then nothing else matters.
What if he is, though?
I don’t even want to think about it. But it’s all my mind can conjure up: visions of Petyr lying bloodied on the asphalt in some godforsaken alley.
What if something happened while he was out? He said the deal with Misha Lykov was important, but did anybody else know how important?
I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. My legs keep moving on their own.
My heart beats fast as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
Luka stands by the door. He’s snapping orders at two of Petyr’s men. His tone is all business. I’ve never seen him like this. Usually, he’s a bundle of nerves, but right now? He looks in charge. Or—
Scared. He looks scared.
He sends them to some address I don’t recognize, a name I’ve never heard before.
Something inside me twists. I walk faster. The hem of my robe brushes the floor as I enter.
“Luka, what happened?” My voice sounds too thin and desperate, but right now, I don’t care. “Where’s Petyr?”
Luka turns. It takes a beat for him to make sense of what he’s seeing: the resident prisoner standing there in a nightgown, demanding answers. He must have gotten the memo I’m no longer supposed to be under lock and key, but his face doesn’t seem to agree with that decision.
The look in his eyes makes my stomach drop. His expression is tight, angry. Above all, though, he seems exhausted.
“You need to go back upstairs,” he says.
“No.” I shake my head. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“This isn’t the time.”
“Then make time!” I cry out. “Tell me if he’s hurt. Please. You don’t have to give me details, just tell me if he’s alive.”
He exhales through his nose. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look as pissed as that night he caught me trying to run, but it’s a close second.
“Please.” I reach for his sleeve. “I need to—”
His arm twists out of my reach. The motion is so sudden, I’m left blinking, grasping at air.
“Don’t touch me,” he snaps. His face has darkened. I realize, too late, he must think I’m trying to manipulate him again. “And stop asking questions. Go back to your room.”
For a second, my father’s voice overlaps with Luka’s.
Go back to your room.
My body shivers. I hate how patronizing that sounds. Like I’m the same little girl who wandered downstairs at the wrong time all those years ago.
Most of all, I hate how badly every instinct is telling me to obey.
But I can’t. Because Petyr might be hurt.
And if he’s hurt, he needs me.
I shake my head again and move to step past Luka. He blocks me easily. His broad shoulders fill the space between me and the door.
“Move,” I demand, though my voice trembles. “You can’t keep me in the dark like this.”
He takes a step forward, and I can see the muscle in his jaw twitch. “You don’t get it, do you? You being here only makes things harder. Go upstairs, Sima.”
“I’m not leaving until I know he’s okay!” The fear in my chest twists into something fierce.
Petyr might be cruel. He might act out, and cage me, and forget he’s supposed to treat me like an equal until reality slaps him hard in the face. But he’s still mine. I can’t just stand here while something might’ve happened to him.
And I sure as shit am not going back to my goddamn room.
I try to push past Luka again, but he catches my arm and forces me back a step. “Enough,” he growls. “You want to help him? Then stay the hell out of the way.”
The blood on his sleeve smears against my hand, warm and sticky. I stare at it.
My stomach turns.
What if it’s Petyr’s?
“Please,” I whisper. “Just tell me if—”
He doesn’t answer this time. He just turns away while I’m mid-sentence and shouts more orders at the men rushing out the door.
Then he’s gone, too.
Ages pass like that, with me standing in nothing but my nightgown in the middle of the foyer. The cold from outside brushes past my ankles. I hug my shoulders, but it doesn’t help to ward off the shivers.
I could go outside and see it for myself. But if Petyr was really here, hurt and bleeding, then Luka would have dragged me back upstairs already.
I have no idea where he is. No way to find out. I’m powerless.
So I do the only thing I can do: what I’m told.
My body moves on its own. I climb the stairs because Luka said to, but my legs feel weak the whole way up.
When I get to the room, I drop to a seat on the edge of the bed and clutch the blanket in both hands. My heart aches, but underneath the pain is fear. Not just fear of losing him, but fear of what that loss would mean for me and the baby.
The house. His Bratva. These people who would circle like vultures the moment he’s gone. I don’t even want to think about it, but I can’t stop.
My mind races through one awful image after another. Petyr bleeding somewhere. The men carrying him inside. Luka covered in blood that isn’t his. The doctor saying it was too late. Each scenario worse than the last, so real I can almost hear it.
I press a hand to my stomach and try to calm myself, but it only makes the ache sharper.
“He’s okay,” I whisper, more to the life inside of me than to myself. “He has to be.”
We were finally starting to find our way back to each other. He was softer with me, more patient. We were talking again. Touching again. For the first time in months, I felt like maybe we could fix this.
If he dies now, we’ll never get to clear the air. We’ll never get to make things right.
It’s a selfish thought, but I can’t help it. I want him to live—for me. Us. What we still haven’t said.
My hand moves over my belly again. The baby isn’t kicking right now, as if she realizes on some deeper level how bad things are.
What if she never gets to meet him? If last night was the last time she’ll ever feel his hands around us? The last time he’ll hold me, hold her through me?
The thought is too much to take.
I fold forward, elbows on my knees, my hands clasped tight in my lap. All I can do is wait. For footsteps on the stairs, or for someone to open the door, carrying answers.
Only, I’m not sure I’m gonna want to hear them.