Chapter 6 Petyr
PETYR
The second the vows are done, I lace my fingers through hers.
It’s far from romantic. Going by the murderous look on Sima’s face, I don’t have to worry about her misunderstanding my intentions, either. She knows as well as I do what it signifies: a leash around her hand instead of her throat.
We leave the chapel hand in hand, passing rows of perplexed family and associates. Half of the Sidorovs’ guests are already gone. The rest look like they’re debating whether to follow.
Let them. I don’t give a shit. They came here expecting a political alliance, and what they got was a reminder never to mess with me. The next time someone speaks the name “Gubarev” in Boris Sidorov’s presence, I want him to fucking piss himself.
He’s lucky all I’m doing is calling off the deal. Others wouldn’t be so forgiving.
My father wouldn’t have been so forgiving.
I’m about to turn my attention to my new prize when Ivan catches up to me near the back doors of the chapel. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, voice pitched low.
“You’ll have to be more specific, Uncle.”
“You know what I’m talking about. You just married the goddamn wedding planner in front of the whole Sidorov family. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
I stop, turning to face him. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to me to let go of Sima’s hand in the process.
“Of course I fucking know what I’m doing.” I let my tone darken. “And quit speaking about my wife like she’s not here.”
I don’t know why I said that last bit. Sima seems surprised, too—a flash goes across her pretty doe eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
Ivan’s brow twitches, but he doesn’t say anything else. “For the sake of this family, I hope you’re telling the truth.” He gives a curt bow to Sima. “Ma’am.”
Then he’s striding off.
I turn back toward the reception hall. The guest exodus is continuing, much to the chagrin of the disappointed staff, reduced to setting full plates at empty places.
“You don’t need to keep holding my hand,” Sima grumbles. “I’m not gonna make a run for it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not.” Her firecracker attitude tugs at the corner of my mouth. “You’re much too smart for that.”
Then, before she can hiss out a comeback, I bring her hand to my lips.
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. I press a kiss to her knuckles anyway, slow and deliberate.
Goosebumps ripple up her arm. She tries to hide the shiver, but I feel it, somewhere under the warmth of her creamy skin and the faint whiff of dollar lotion.
It sends a hot pulse straight through me.
It’s stupid how much I want to see what else I can pull out of her. How fast I could get her trembling again, for entirely different reasons. My hunger kicks low and hard, and I have to force myself not to let it show.
“You don’t have to keep playing the role,” she mumbles after, snatching her hand away. “We get it: you own me. You don’t have to keep pissing all over your territory.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a very cynical thing to say.”
“You just married a stranger to punish your runaway bride,” she scoffs under her breath. “Forgive me if I don’t believe this is your romantic era.”
“I never said anything about romance.”
“Then I’d say any more of your mouth on my body is uncalled for.”
My poker face threatens to break. I bite my grin down to a smirk, but I can’t help it: I like the way she fires back. Most people don’t dare—certainly not with me. They keep their heads down, their mouths shut, and do as they’re told.
Not her, though.
“Is it?” I press with a pointed look at her flushed face. “Pity.”
Her blush deepens. I wonder if she’ll blush as prettily when I have her stripped bare. When I’m buried to the hilt inside her.
She tries to shrink from me, but I don’t let her. Like I said, I’m not in the habit of letting go of things that fall into my lap. Finders keepers, and I’m the one who found her. Not my father, not my brother—me.
Her gaze darts to the side exit. I follow it, watch her eyes narrow as she calculates the distance. How fast she thinks she can sprint in her sensible work heels.
“Don’t,” I warn.
She doesn’t look at me. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t try to run. We just established you’re too smart for that, and I hate to be proven wrong.”
Her spine stiffens. She wasn’t expecting me to read her. Something tells me Ms. Banks is used to being the smartest person in the room.
And that she has no idea how to handle it when she’s not.
Challenge sparks in her eyes. “Or what?” she snaps, pressing into my space. “You’ll chase me down and drag me back caveman-style?”
“No need.” I lean in just enough for her to feel my breath on her ear. “I’ll just have to make sure you don’t get the chance to run again.”
Her face drains. No doubt, she’s picturing a million different gruesome ways I could keep that promise.
Without thinking, I reach out and catch a lock of her hair between my fingers. Soft, silky, with a scent like citrus and cheap shampoo. I twirl it once, then bring it to my nose and inhale.
“Wherever you run, I can find you,” I say. “Any no-name town, any back alley in the country.”
“Then I’ll just have to ditch the country,” she counters.
My smirk widens. “Fake IDs might get you around this side of the border, but they won’t get you through TSA, lisichka. And unless you’re planning to swim your way across the Atlantic, there’s nowhere you can go I won’t follow.”
Sima’s breath catches. She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, frozen, fury and fear tangled in her eyes.
“So don’t do anything stupid,” I advise. “You’re clever. Stay that way, and we won’t have a problem.”
She turns her face away for a second, jaw clenched, chest rising like she’s working to hold herself together. I let her have the moment, breathe through it. It’s better for both of us if she doesn’t make a scene.
Then, just like that, she locks it down. Straightens her shoulders, fixes her expression. Composes herself like nothing happened.
I can tell she’s had years of practice at this game.
“What now?” she demands with a sliver of voice, looking everywhere but me.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate on that.”
“What happens now?” she clarifies, impatient. “You parade me around like a prize? Take me to your reception? Let your whole crew toast to a heartfelt speech about how it was love at first blackmail?”
“Tempting. But no.” I nod to Lev, who’s already signaling for the car. “We’re skipping the party. I’ve had enough speeches for one day.”
Her brow lifts. “That’s bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into your sham of a wedding.” She jabs a finger into my chest. “My friend Jemma slept three hours in the past three days to make sure the carnations would match the bride’s gown’s shade of eggshell white exactly.
Now, you’re telling me you won’t even bother to stick around? ”
“Yes.” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
She bites her lip. I can glimpse her inner war: the pride of the wedding planner versus the fear of the hostage.
I don’t need to guess which one will win out.
By the time we’re in the back of the limo, she’s stiff as a board. I’ve never seen anyone sit up so straight, or work so hard to stare into nothingness. She hasn’t even noticed her purse on the seat in front of us yet.
I pick it up and dangle it between my fingers. “You dropped this earlier.”
She snatches it up without so much as a thank-you. “What game are you even playing at? What’s the goal here, Petyr?”
I lean my head back against the seat and look her over. Her profile is sharp in the tinted light, lips pursed, jaw tight. She looks absolutely furious.
And scared.
“Efficiency.”
“Efficiency?” She scoffs. “Again, you just married a total stranger.”
“You’d be surprised how often that happens in my world.”
Her throat works. Her gaze grows even more evasive. It confirms my suspicions even further. That she isn’t, in fact, surprised.
Because she’s perfectly aware of how my world works.
Because it’s not just my world.
It’s her world, too.
Patience, I tell myself. It wouldn’t be good to spook her now. Not when she already looks ready to bolt.
“Why me?” Sima’s voice is a whisper now. “You don’t know me. You don’t even know my real—” She stops, horrified by her own words.
I let them hang there, amused. “You were saying?”
Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Then I’ll answer.” I glance out the window, watch the city pass us by. “I married you because I needed a bride. Mine wasn’t available. You were. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Her glare turns to daggers. “That’s not a real answer.”
“Neither was your name.”
That shuts her up.
“Sima.” I let it roll off my tongue like molten chocolate. “Beautiful name. Not at all like the pedestrian one on your ID.”
“It’s a nickname,” she blurts quickly—too quickly. “I go by Sammi. But my younger brother couldn’t say it when he was growing up. He kept saying ‘Sima’ instead. It stuck, so…”
I hum. Pretend, for a second, that I believe her. Then I laugh. You’re a terrible liar, Sammi.”
Her jaw flexes. “Believe what you want.”
“I plan to.” Then, before she can snatch it back, I reach into her purse and pull out her fake ID again. “Thirty-three. Huh.”
“I…” She swallows, hard. “Have good genes.”
“More than good, I’d say.” I let my gaze linger over her smooth skin, her youthful splash of freckles. Everywhere her lie becomes glaring. How no one has guessed her real identity yet—that’s the real mystery. “Care to share your secret?”
“Moisturizer, clean living, and avoiding bad men.”
“Right. Who knew the secret to eternal youth was dollar-store face cream and instant ramen?”
She flushes bright red. Clearly, she thought I wouldn’t have time to look into her between our little closet encounter and the altar.
She abruptly averts her gaze. She’s glaring out the window now, but I can still see it: the way her throat works around a dry mouth, the sheen of sweat at her hairline. The barest tremble in her hands, like she’s weighing the pros and cons of slapping me.
I shift closer and lower my voice. “Tell me what else you’re lying about, Sammi.”
She opens her mouth, probably to deflect again, but I cut her off.
“Because here’s the thing.” I trail the line of her exposed collarbone, drinking in the goosebumps that bloom in my wake. “You can play dumb, but I see you. You can’t hide from me.”
She clenches her fists in her lap. “I’ve hidden from plenty of people before.”
“That was before.” I brush a knuckle under her chin, tilt her face towards me. Watch her plump lips part of their own accord. “New game, new rules, lisichka.”
She jerks away like I burned her. “Fuck you,” she spits.
No, little fox. Not yet.
But soon.