Chapter 12 Sima
SIMA
Petyr doesn’t say a word as he drags me back to the bedroom. His grip is like iron around my wrist. My pulse is thrumming in my ears, my chest tighter with every step down the endless hallway, but I don’t fight him. He’s mad enough as is.
He shoves the bedroom door open. “Get in.”
I obey.
“Sit.”
Again, I obey.
I perch stiffly at the end of the bed. My fists clutch the sheets, milky white against bloodred. I feel like a naughty kid about to be disciplined. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure he can hear it.
Petyr steps in close. He’s tall enough to tower over me, bulky enough to block the moonlight entirely.
Then, suddenly, his hand is around my throat.
My heart stops. The pressure isn’t crushing, not to the point that I couldn’t breathe if I wanted to—but God, do I not want to.
I realize, with a slow sort of clarity, what’s about to happen here.
He’s gonna kill me, isn’t he?
Petyr’s face is inches from mine now. I can see every pore, every gold speck in his whiskey brown eyes. The way his nostrils flare like a provoked bull, like he’s trying really hard not to lose whatever scrap of control he’s got left.
I pray he makes it quick.
His grip tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough that I understand what a bad idea it would be to struggle. No doubt, that’s exactly the point he wanted to make.
“Try that shit again,” he growls, “and I’ll lock you in this room until you give me an heir.”
His warm breath brushes against my skin. I shiver before I can stop myself. The worst part is, I’m not sure it’s entirely fear.
He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint scrape of his calloused fingertips against the soft dip of my throat. My pulse is rabbit-quick, like a caught prey. I wish I didn’t have to see how much his nearness affects me, but my body betrays me at every turn.
Right on cue, I blush. I hate myself for it. My mind is screaming that this man is dangerous, that I should be terrified. In a way, I am.
But something in my stomach tightens all the same.
Heat pools low in my gut, and my thoughts won’t stay put. They keep drifting where they shouldn’t. My mind fills with images of Petyr’s rough hands trailing over my body, ghosting over parts far more sensitive than my throat.
What would it feel like? To have his mouth pressed against mine, his hands pressed elsewhere?
I inhale sharply. No. Not the time to let the thirst take over, Sima. The man literally has you in a chokehold—what does that say about you?!
That we’ve been putting off therapy for far too long?
Alright, fair. But still.
My silence must be irking Petyr. His grip tightens again, and this time, I can feel a slight pressure on my carotid artery. You know, the one where most of the oxygen goes through? My breaths turn quick and shallow, but my flush only deepens.
This is what happens when you keep turning down Jemma’s offers for a double blind date, my conscience dryly reminds me.
Or when you don’t go out, like, at all. Or when you keep avoiding men because you’re terrified that, six months into a nice situationship, they’re going to spike your champagne with a diamond ring.
I clench my fists tighter and drop my gaze. I refuse to meet his eyes like this, weak and vulnerable and a hundred other things I’m usually not. Things I hate being. Instead, I bite my lip and try really hard to shove those thoughts back into the gutter they’ve crawled out of.
But I can still feel his fingers dancing at my pulse point, and I know they’re going to haunt me long after he steps back.
Petyr must take my sudden meekness as a sign of surrender, because he finally releases me.
He doesn’t move far, though. Clearly, he doesn’t feel he’s hammered the point quite home yet.
“I don’t have time for your fucking tantrums,” he grinds out.
“You need to get on board with what’s happening.
You can’t stop it, Sima. We’re married. Might as well accept it instead of running scared. ”
A rush of anger sparks through my fear. “Accept what, exactly? That I’m your prisoner now? That you’re just gonna rape me until I get pregnant and give you your precious heir?”
Petyr’s eyes harden. But his voice stays calm, infuriatingly so. “I won’t have to rape you,” he says. “You’ll want everything we do.”
I bark out a laugh. “I think you’re vastly overestimating your sex appeal.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but I can’t tell if it’s amusement or annoyance. Either way, he’s looking at me like I’ve just challenged him to prove me wrong. Which was not my intention. Like, at all. Right?
And yet, a tiny part of me—one I wish I could tie up and gag, and not in a kinky way—isn’t so sure that he’s wrong.
As if on cue, he tips up my chin. “We’ll see about that, lisichka. But first, we have to set some ground rules.”
My mouth starts goldfishing. “What, like Mr. Grey? Am I to call you ‘Master’ and present my behind for spanking every time I don’t eat my veggies?”
“What you have to do is cut the bullshit. I can’t have you running away every time I turn my back. I’d rather not sic my hounds on you.”
Great, so he does have hounds. Splendid. A-fucking-mazing. “Is that so?”
“That is so.” He finally lets go of my chin. “I have too many enemies for that. If you fall into the wrong hands…”
My father comes to mind.
“So?” I bluff, hiding my shaking hands behind my back. “So what happens now?”
“We make a deal.”
“Sounds like what the devil would say.”
He shoots me an amused glance. Five more minutes alone with this guy, and my riveting sense of humor might even get him to laugh. “Lucky for you, I’m not interested in your soul.”
“Just my womb, then?”
His eyes go dark. Somehow, it doesn’t look like anger. “Partly. I do need an heir, after all.”
“And why should I act as a baby-popping machine for you?” I ask, defensive. “What could you possibly offer me that would be worth that?”
“Your freedom.”
The word hangs in the air. He lets it, on purpose. As if he knows the effect it’ll have on me.
Fuck him; it’s working. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, you’ll be paid handsomely for your services.
” He starts pacing the room calmly, fingers interlaced behind his back.
His eyes don’t leave mine for a second. “You can have a brand-new identity, a brand-new life far from here, where no one can ever find you. All you have to do is stay married to me, birth a child, and I’ll consider our contract fulfilled. ”
“Contract?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll have one drawn up. Sign on the dotted line. If I’m not true to my word, feel free to take me to court.”
Right. As if. But his words are starting to sound more and more appealing. Money, freedom, a life without the looming shadow of my past. Honestly, his offer feels a little too good to be true.
Except…
“What about the child?” I curl a hand protectively around my belly. It’s silly—there’s nothing there. And yet, if there were… I’m not so sure I’d be able to let it go that easily.
“Keep it.” He shrugs. “Give it up. Honestly, I don’t care.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“My father’s will dictates that I be married and sire an heir. It says nothing about me raising it.”
I stare at him, struggling to process his words. “So, you’d just… let me keep it?”
“If that’s what you want, then yes.”
For a second, I just reel. Everything he said feels too calculated, too clean. And yet, it’s also the first time he mentioned a way out for me. A future that doesn’t include bars at my window and busted kneecaps. And, as crazy as it is… I’m not totally opposed to it.
I’d get money. I’d get my freedom. More than that, I’d get a baby.
Without any strings attached. I wouldn’t need to marry, to co-parent, to be chained to anyone.
He’s basically offering me to be my sperm donor and sugar daddy.
All in a day’s work—or a year, at most. In a way, Petyr is offering me everything I’ve ever wanted.
“How handsomely?” I pry, searching for the trap in the fine print. Because surely, there must be one. His offer can’t be that good.
“Six zeroes,” he says. “You can pick the number at the top.”
Holy fucking spreadsheet.
I try really hard to keep my pupils from turning into dollar signs.
Six zeroes—that’s one million at least. And by the sound of it, he’d let me go as high as nine times that without batting an eye.
I’d say no one has that kind of spare change, but realistically speaking, he does.
The Gubarev family is one of the richest in the country. That means billions.
Naturally, there are drawbacks to this offer, too. Obvious ones, like the fact that accepting would mean I’d have to spend a lot of time with him. Like, a lot. The risk of him recognizing me? It would multiply times infinity.
Granted, he hasn’t so far, and provided I keep a low profile, I could probably make it work. But am I willing to bet everything on “probably”?
You’re considering this. You really are.
Yes. How could I not?
With Petyr’s money, I could leave the country. I could start my business. I could raise a child like I always wanted, live without a care in the world, never having to look over my shoulder again.
I could be free.
But freedom never comes for free. The thought settles heavily in my chest.
I lift my chin. “How do I know you won’t eventually come for the child?”
Petyr’s brow lifts. “Because I just told you so.”
“Right.” I make an effort not to roll my eyes. “But most of the time, the pakhan actually wants to raise his heir. Even kind of needs it.”
He gives a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not like my father. I’m honestly not that concerned about legacy. I have cousins who would be happy to take over when I’m dead. I’ll arrange whatever legal documents you need to grant you full custody.”
“And if you change your mind?”
“Then I’ll find another woman willing to give me a child.”
The thought of him with other women leaves me cold, unsteady. Admittedly, I was not prepared for it. It’s a business arrangement—what the hell am I getting jealous for?
A different woman on his arm each night. A different plaything laughing at the dinner table, younger and younger. A parade of dolls and humiliation.
My father’s face flashes into my mind. My lips press into a line, my fists balled up at my sides.
This isn’t about Petyr. This is about me. Specifically, me not ending up like my mother. I almost feel relieved to be realizing it, but the bitterness of what he just said lingers on my tongue. The images, the wounds they’d be opening back up…
“No.”
He tilts his head. Just slightly. Just enough for me to know he isn’t pleased and would like to give me a chance to think it over again. “No?”
“No other women.” Despite my assurances that this has nothing to do with Petyr or jealousy, I find myself flushing. “Promise me you won’t be with anyone else while you’re… doing this with me.”
My tone is frailer than I’d like. It shows weakness. Any moment now, this man is bound to take advantage.
Petyr studies me for a long beat. Then, against all reason, he nods. “Fine. You have my word.”
Wait, what?
“You…” I clear my throat. “You mean it?”
“I do.”
The room spins. It dawns on me, finally, that I’m really doing this. Getting into bed with the enemy—literally.
But it’s a small price to pay for everything I’ve ever wanted.
So, against my better judgment, I nod, too.