Chapter 8 Sima
SIMA
If Dracula ran a Restoration Hardware, it would probably look like this place.
The walls are paneled in deep, glossy wood, polished until they’re almost mirrors. Heavy antique furniture looms in the foyer: dark oak tables, clawfoot chairs, carved cabinets so big they could double as panic rooms.
The curtains are thick, bloodred velvet. Same goes for the rugs. Same goes for the cushions. It’s the only splash of color anywhere, and it’s not doing the space any favors. It doesn’t brighten things. Just sucks the light in.
Somehow, it makes everything feel heavier.
And deadlier.
Still, the money smell is insane. I try not to gawk like a tourist as I step inside. My soles squeak against the gleaming floor, and the echo of the front door shutting behind me sounds like the gates of hell locking closed.
Petyr doesn’t seem fazed. He tosses his coat onto a side table and gestures down a long, dim hallway. As I look in, I half-expect the Slenderman to stare back.
“Come. I’ll show you around.”
I open my mouth to say something like, No thanks. I’m fine. Or maybe an evergreen, Where’s the bathroom? I’m fairly certain I can figure out where he keeps the sheets, if he gives me a week to explore.
But I don’t get the chance to say anything.
A woman appears at the end of the hall. She’s tall and willowy, with dark hair pulled into a sleek low bun and sharp, high cheekbones.
Not the Slenderman, I note mentally.
She walks up to us. As she gets closer, I realize she doesn’t look much older than me. But her expression is worlds apart: cold, composed, unreadable as a block of ice.
“Petyr.”
“Kira.”
They exchange a nod. No smiles, no warmth, no how-do-you-do’s. It’s not like I was expecting Mr. Dark-and-Broody to be a kisses-on-both-cheeks type of guy, but this is chilly even by his standards.
“This is Sima,” he says emotionlessly, turning towards me. “My wife.”
Kira’s brow lifts a fraction. “Your wife,” she repeats slowly. “Interesting. I was given to understand you’d be marrying Polina Sidorov.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that buzzes under the skin.
“How’s Dimitri?” Petyr asks, his tone softer now.
Kira’s expression flickers. Not enough for most people to notice, but I see it.
“I thought he looked stronger today,” she replies. Her voice is light, but not airy. Airy floats. Her words drop like lead.
“That’s good.”
I suddenly feel like I’ve walked into the middle of something sacred—or at least something private—and I’m standing on the fault line.
Then Petyr’s phone starts vibrating in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and curses under his breath.
“I need to take this.” He turns to Kira. “Show her around, will you?”
Kira’s smile is thin and false. “Of course.”
He strides off without another word. I’m left with Kira, who turns to me with that same brittle expression.
“Well then,” she says. “Let’s begin.”
The tour is thorough, but not friendly.
“This is the sitting room.”
“This is the formal dining room.”
“This is the informal dining room.”
There are so many rooms, I lose count. All of them are decorated in the same gloomy, expensive style: dark wood, velvet, gloom.
On top of that, every space I visit is clean to the point of obsession.
Not a speck of dust, not a mote. It’s like no one actually lives here.
When I can’t find a single abandoned remote, I start to think I’m being pranked.
Or shown a model home, a replica for the real thing—some castle deep in the mountains of Transylvania.
Kira pauses by a floor-to-ceiling window that looks over a garden. That, too, looks fake. But the roses are in full bloom, and fake doesn’t mean ugly.
“You must be thrilled,” she remarks with a hidden edge. “Most girls don’t marry into this much power.”
I blink at her. “Excuse me?”
She turns to face me, folding her arms. “You can drop the act. You married him, didn’t you? I’m sure the money and the title helped soften the blow.”
I almost laugh out loud. “You really think I did this for the money?”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Didn’t you?”
I think of the velvet-lined chapel. Of Ivan dragging me to the altar. Of the weight of a thousand eyes on me as I said vows I didn’t choose. Of the gunmen posted at every exit.
I think of how close I’d come to running. How badly I still want to.
“No,” I say flatly. “I didn’t.”
Kira doesn’t respond. She just leads me down one more hallway and stops in front of a double door with intricate carvings.
She throws it open and gestures for me to enter.
“This is the master bedroom,” she says. “Petyr’s room. Yours now, I suppose.”
I step inside. The air smells like cedar and clean linen.
The bed is, well, massive—needs room for both Petyr and his ego, I presume—with heavy wooden posts and bloodred sheets to match the rest of the house.
There’s a fireplace, bookshelves towering to the ceiling, and a private ensuite bathroom I can see through the open door.
I hear Kira behind me. “Get comfortable.” A faint note of mockery colors her voice. “Though I guess that won’t be a problem, will it?”
Before I can answer, she’s gone, the door closing with a soft but final click.
For the first time in hours, I’m alone again.
Thank God.
I let myself exhale. Once, twice, until I feel like my lungs are mine again.
Then I take in the room. The opulence, the pristineness of it. The walls, tall and covered in books, feel like they’re pressing in from every side. My pulse is thudding in my ears, and for a second, I swear the air tilts around me.
I stumble to the bed and sit down slowly, half-expecting the mattress to be as hard and foreboding as everything else in this mausoleum of a house. Instead, I sink into something soft. Luxurious. The sheets are like cream against my palms, smooth and cool to the touch.
The contrast stuns me. Everything in this place is sharp corners, and yet the bed—his bed—is the only thing that feels like it wants to hold me.
I expect a marriage. A real one.
A shiver rolls down my spine. I don’t know if it’s the cold or the terror or something else entirely.
All I know is that I still have no idea how the hell I’m going to escape this place.
Or survive it.