Chapter 7 Sima
SIMA
The farther we drive from the city, the worse the knot in my stomach gets.
Skyscrapers give way to suburbs, suburbs to trees. Before long, all I can see are endless rows of pine and the occasional road sign, half-eaten by moss.
Every extra mile feels like the nail in the coffin of my escape plan.
This is what you get for refusing to go to that orienteering field trip in fifth grade. You faked sick to dodge the mosquitoes. Remember? Now, you can’t read a compass and you’re still stuck in the wilderness. Nice job. A-plus.
“Where are we going?” I finally scrounge up the courage to ask. “Out to hunt Bigfoot?”
Petyr doesn’t so much as glance at me. “Home.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “That totally answers it.”
This time, he does turn to me. The not-quite-there smirk he gives me makes me regret wriggling my way out of both orienteering and boxing lessons.
Both would’ve come in handy right about now.
“You seem to be under the impression that you get to ask questions.” He leans in slightly. My space immediately fills with the scent of his aftershave. Something like pine, fresh snow, and obscene amounts of money. “Let me disabuse you of that notion. You don’t.”
With a frustrated exhale, I press my cheek against the tinted window again. Home. Whose home is that gonna be? Petyr’s? His family’s? Or is it just code for some torture dungeon where they’ll lock me up and waterboard me?
I wipe my sweaty palms against my pants and curse ten-year-old me for turning down those punching classes.
But most of all, I curse myself from two hours ago.
God, how could I have been so careless? How could I just blurt out my actual name? A decade and change on the run, and this is how I get caught? For fucking real?
It’s like I’d completely forgotten my cover story. Like I was twelve again. Scared, alone, desperate for someone to see me for who I really was.
But that someone never should have been him.
I replay Petyr’s questions in my mind. About my real name, my real age. That stupid plastic ID tucked in my purse—he never should have gotten his hands on that. All it took was some simple math to expose me. Math, and a stupid slip of the tongue.
He wasn’t asking at random. Every question was pointed, probing. Deliberate in a way that made my skin crawl. For several moments there, I thought I was being toyed with. That he knew.
But that can’t be. If Petyr knew who I was, there’s no way we’d be having a conversation at all, or even a leisurely hostage situation across the countryside.
Best-case scenario, he’d have already made the call to my father.
Set the ransom sky-high, maybe start a bidding war with every enemy he’s ever made, and sit back to enjoy the bloodbath.
Worst-case scenario, I’d be swimming with the koi fish.
But he wouldn’t have married me. He just wouldn’t have. What kind of sense would that make?
I clutch that fraying thread of logic with all my heart. Yes, he can’t know. I’m alive, so he can’t know.
And he can never, ever be allowed to find out.
BZZZT!
I nearly jump when my phone buzzes in my purse.
I snatch it up before Mr. Daddy Long Hands can. When I see the bazillion missed calls from Jemma, my heart jumps out of my throat, but that’s not where it ends.
Because the texts are worse.
JEMMA: Are you okay??? That rich Russian guy just up and MARRIED you. Did you know him? What the hell, Sammi?
JEMMA: Sammi. Please talk to me.
JEMMA: Dude, pick up. You’re scaring me.
JEMMA: Alright, that’s enough. I’m calling the cops.
That last text sends ice through my veins.
NO, I reply dramatically in caps lock. Do NOT call the police, Jem.
Her reply is immediate. Give me one good reason not to??
I roll my eyes, even as my chest clenches. Two hours into this nightmare, and I’m already hurting the one person in my new life that I care about.
Please, just trust me. I promise I’m safe. I can’t talk rn, but I’ll call when I can, okay?
When I hit Send, my mouth turns bitter with the taste of my lies.
No more lies. That’s what I’d promised myself after I started my new life. I’d lie about my real identity, my age, and anything that could put me at risk of being discovered. But I wouldn’t lie about anything else. Especially not to my friends.
Just another promise I broke today.
After a couple of intermittent text bubbles, Jemma shoots back with a thumbs-up emoji, but I can feel the worry behind it.
I don’t blame her. I’m worried, too.
Because I have no idea how the hell I’m going to get back to the city.
But if I do manage to give old Dark-and-Broody the slip… then I might need Jemma to come pick up the pieces. God knows I don’t have anyone else.
Petyr eyes me from the side. “Show me your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your phone.” He holds out his palm. “Now.”
I want to fight back, but I can tell he’s not joking. The set of his jaw is serious. Cold. Unlike any other time he’s teased me so far.
With a roll of my eyes, I hold it up just out of reach. If he wants to go through my phone, he’ll have to snatch it out and look like a major asshat. Not that I think he wouldn’t, but better safe than sorry.
“It’s just Jemma,” I say. “My assistant. You know, the member of our team who didn’t get roped up into the wedding she was helping organize.”
He squints at the screen, like he can’t quite see. Maybe he’s near-sighted? Too cool for glasses, too chicken for contacts?
After a moment, he drops his palm and leans back into his seat. I try not to slump visibly with relief. “Guess you did leave her high and dry.”
“Whose fault was that, again?”
He doesn’t take the bait. “You’ll want to switch that off. In a few miles, you won’t be getting a signal anymore. Best save your battery.”
“Great,” I deadpan. “Just what every newlywed hostage wants to hear.”
A car ride into the woods, no reception, and a career murderer for company. Am I gonna have to watch out for an ax, too? Keep an ear out for dragging chains?
Petyr’s lips quirk. “Who said you were a hostage?”
“The dictionary, for one.” I shoot him a scathing look. “Considering you didn’t exactly give me a choice when you called me up on that altar.”
“You did have a choice. You could have said no.”
“Could I, now?”
“Yes.” He pins me with his molten gaze. Suddenly, this car is starting to feel too small, too hot. “Why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t you marry your own bride?”
He gives me an amused glance. Clearly, he isn’t used to being pressed for answers. “Like I said, she wasn’t available. You were.”
“Wow. Guess romance isn’t dead, after all.”
“Didn’t say it was.” He fixes his cufflinks. Diamond, judging from the thousand-watt shine. “I just don’t care for it.”
I stare at him. Of all the things he said, this is the first one that doesn’t make me want to punch him. Oddly, because—as his newly-appointed wife—it really kind of should.
And yet, I’m not insulted. Honestly, I get it. I’m not exactly Miss Happily Ever After myself. If it wasn’t for work, I never would have set foot in a chapel again.
“Your turn,” he says.
“Huh?”
“You didn’t turn me down.” His golden gaze slides over me. “Why?”
Now, that’s rich. “Didn’t know ‘no’ was an option when the pakhan asks.”
His eyes narrow to fissures. “Funny. I don’t remember telling you I was pakhan of anything.”
Shit.
I feel the blood drain from my face. Cold grips me. I’m lightheaded, like I might faint at any second.
Sima Danilo grew up in a Bratva family. It makes sense for her to know who the major players are, how weddings work in that world.
But Sammi Banks is a normal girl. She wasn’t born into organized crime.
Hell, she shouldn’t even be able to pronounce the word pakhan, let alone know what it means or that Petyr is one.
Think fast. “I mean,” I blurt with a forced laugh that couldn’t fool a toddler, “c’mon. Yours isn’t the first Bratva wedding that fell into my lap. I’ve seen enough to know who’s who.”
Petyr’s gaze leaves me feeling naked. Exposed and raw like I haven’t felt in years.
He opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off.
“Anyhoo!” I give a nervous chuckle and mentally slap myself.
Who even says “anyhoo” anymore?! “I didn’t think you were actually going to take it this far.
I figured you just needed to save face in front of your guests.
You know, make it look like everything went off without a hitch.
Quietly get an annulment later. Like in Vegas. ”
His silence stretches just long enough to make me regret opening my mouth at all.
Then he says, almost too casually, “My father’s will required me to be married. Legally. With an heir. If I wanted to keep my seat.”
I blink. Once, twice. “I’m sorry,” I say, raising my voice an octave too high, “an heir?”
“Yes.”
“As in, a baby?”
“That’s generally how heirs come about,” he says, calm as could be. “I could draw you a picture, if you’d like.”
“Nope. Got it.” Then I realize I don’t “got it”, like, at all. “Wait. Let me get this straight. You want me to—?”
“I expect a marriage.” His gaze meets mine. Firm, unflinching. “A real one.”
I freeze.
What?
My breath stutters. My brain screeches to a halt. Suddenly, the limo feels airtight, all of the oxygen sucked out of it.
Sure, I thought he was hot. Hell, he is hot. Objectively speaking, the man is sin in a designer suit. And yeah, maybe the idea of him touching me makes my skin tingle in a way that has nothing to do with mosquitoes.
But actually having sex with him? As his wife? With the goal of making babies?
It’s a hundred different flavors of crazy.
I try to remember how to breathe. I pinch myself while I’m at it—you can never tell if you’re in a fever dream until you snap out with your nose clogged and cotton in your head.
But the scene doesn’t change. I’m still in the limo, Petyr is still watching me like a hawk, and he still hasn’t said “sike.”
He expects me to stay married to him.
Worse—he expects me to get pregnant.
My mouth opens. No words come out. Just a slight rattle like the rusty hinges on death’s door.
I turn to the window and stare out, hoping my face doesn’t betray the utter panic I’m feeling.
We pass a long stretch of security fencing, topped with barbed wire. A few seconds later, the limo slows, rolling easily through tall, spiky iron gates.
Somehow, I don’t see myself climbing over those unscathed.
Beyond the gates, a mansion comes into view. It’s freaking massive, like something out of a fairy tale.
Or a horror movie. Or a true crime documentary.
Worse, I still have no idea where we are. Only that we’re officially in enemy territory.
And I still haven’t figured out how the hell I’m going to get out of it.