Chapter 29 Petyr
PETYR
By the time I get home, I’m running on fumes. My body feels like it’s running on autopilot.
The house is quiet and I can smell the faint trace of antiseptic still clinging to my clothes. The scent mixes with iron and smoke, a reminder of the night I want to forget.
My shirt sticks to my skin. The fabric’s stiff with blood. Some is mine. Most is not.
My shoulder throbs, but it’s already numb from the adrenaline wearing off. All I want right now is a shower, something hot enough to burn off everything that’s still clinging to me.
We were lucky. Misha especially. I got him to a surgeon I know, someone who owes me a few favors. The kind of doctor who doesn’t ask questions. Who knows what the Bratva world is like.
She took one look at Misha and said it was a bad wound, but a clean one. The bullet passed straight through, no bone shards or artery nicks. Painful as hell, but not fatal.
Misha will be fine. He’s tougher than he looks, and he’s got that stubborn will to live I’ve seen in men who refuse to die, no matter how hard the world tries to kill them.
I’d be lying if I said the same about myself. Not the body—physically, I’ll heal—but the rest of it.
Tonight felt too familiar. The sound of gunfire, the heat in my chest, the smell of blood on my hands. It’s a pattern that never ends.
I move through the house slowly, careful not to wake anyone, though I know half the men are still bustling around after the chaos earlier. My boots leave faint marks on the tile, and I don’t care enough to wipe them away.
I head toward the kitchen for a glass of water before going upstairs. My shoulder burns, my muscles ache, and I just want to stand under running water until everything feels clean again. Until I stop seeing Feliks’s face when I close my eyes.
That image won’t leave me. Her brother. I killed her brother. Even if he was aiming for me and it was self-defense, the sting of that truth blares against my ribs like another bullet.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. I’m going to have to tell her eventually, but not yet. Maybe nothing tonight. I just need to rinse off the blood before I can face her.
I don’t know if Sima’s awake. Part of me hopes she’s still asleep, that she doesn’t have to know yet. I’m not ready for that conversation.
When I turn the corner to the kitchen, I see Kira.
She’s standing by the counter in one of those silk robes she wears, eyes red, face wet with tears.
The second she spots me, she gasps. “Petyr!”
Before I can say anything, she’s on me. She throws herself forward, arms wrapped tight around my neck. Her body hits mine with more force than I expect.
For a second, I just stand there, stunned. “Kira,” I start, my voice low, uncertain. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
She’s crying against my shoulder, her voice muffled. “We heard there was an attack. They said you were shot. I thought—” Her words break off into another sob.
The contact makes me uncomfortable. It’s way too intimate. I’m used to expecting more distance from my brother’s wife. In our world, we’re careful to respect other people’s territory.
I raise my hands, slow, and grip her shoulders. Her skin feels cold. She’s trembling beneath my palms.
“I’m fine,” I repeat quietly. “It’s over.”
She looks up at me, eyes still wet, and searches my face like she doesn’t believe it. “You’re bleeding.” Her hand lands softly on my arm.
“It’s nothing,” I answer. “A graze. Nothing to worry about.” I push her gently away. Create a little distance between us. “You should go get some rest.”
Kira hesitates. She’s blinking hard, her breath shaky. “I thought you were dead,” she whispers.
I force a weak smile, though it feels wrong on my face. “Not yet.”
Kira doesn’t move right away. She wipes at her eyes, tries to pull herself together. “When I heard about the shooting,” she says quietly, “I thought— God, Petyr, it felt just like when I got the call about Dimitri. I couldn’t breathe. I thought it was happening again.”
A pang of guilt rises up. She’s shaken because she’s done this exact nightmare scenario before and she thought tonight was round two. I can’t blame her for her panic.
“I’m fine,” I say for a third time. “It’s over. I’m sorry you had to hear it that way.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll live.” I manage a small nod to put her at ease. “Go upstairs, Kira. Get some rest.”
“If you need to talk—”
“Right now, I just want to shower and sleep.”
Her mouth opens like she wants to say more, but I cut her off before she can.
“Go to bed, Kira.” My tone softens, but the message is clear. I can’t do this with her—not tonight.
She hesitates, then finally steps back and nods. “Alright. Goodnight, Petyr.”
“Goodnight.”
I turn away. Even so, the back of my neck burns with the feeling of being watched.
I guess she must have been really shaken.
As I climb upstairs, I realize that the scent of her perfume is lingering on me.
All it does is make me want to wash the night off faster.
I’m not against comforting my sister-in-law if she needs me, but I’m not a fan of physical contact.
Sima is the only exception to that rule. Anyone else just rubs me the wrong way.
“I thought— God, Petyr, it felt just like when I got the call about Dimitri.”
I know how it feels to get that call. Because I got that call, too. One second, my world was whole, and the next, everything was upside-down. Torn apart forever. My father dead, my brother in a coma.
But at least it wasn’t Sima. If I ever got that call about her, I’m not sure what I’d do. I don’t even want to think about it.
I guess Kira’s reaction doesn’t seem so far out of the norm when I think of it that way. If tonight dragged back memories of the night she almost lost her husband, it’s no wonder she was so shaken.
I head up the staircase, one hand pressed against the wall for balance. My shoulder aches, the bandage pulling tight under my shirt, but I barely feel the pain. All I can think about is Sima.
If Kira heard, she might have, too. I pray to God she hasn’t. If anyone but me tells her about this, she’ll never forgive me. Hell, she might not forgive me anyway.
But I have to try. I owe her the truth. I killed Feliks, and I can’t run from that. What’s done is done.
When I reach the bedroom, the door’s cracked open. I push it gently, and my stomach drops.
She’s sitting in the middle of the bed, arms wrapped around her middle, eyes red and swollen from crying. Her face lifts when she hears me, and the look in her eyes makes my chest throb.
She knows. She already heard.
It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
I step inside slowly. “Sima. I’m so fucking sorry.”
She doesn’t speak right away. Her hands clutch her stomach tighter, as if to protect the life growing there from me.
“I didn’t know it was him,” I continue. “Not until it was over.”
I pause there, uncertain and still. There’s nothing else to say.
Until Sima blinks and asks, “Who?”