Chapter 23 Sima
SIMA
I shouldn’t be disappointed that Petyr left.
Seriously, what is wrong with me? This is the perfect time to take a breather. Be alone with my thoughts, plan my devious plots. Or even just turn on the TV and let some brainless reality show wipe the thoughts from my brain.
And yet, as I flop on the lush mattress of his equally lush penthouse apartment, my thoughts refuse to drift anywhere else.
It’s like Petyr has colonized my brain. Planted a flag straight into my hippocampus and claimed it for his Bratva kingdom of evil.
I blame it on what happened in the dressing room. Ever since that little power play, I’ve been… needy. Aching. Desperate in a way that makes the feminism astral project out of my body.
I want him. Badly. There’s no use pretending otherwise. I want the things he does to my body, the way he makes me let go and forget how to think.
He kisses like no one else, and I’m not saying that just because I have zero experience with kissing. Or anything other than that. I’ve seen people smooching on park benches after dark, and whatever it is they were doing, it was not that.
My legs shift restlessly. The memory of his hands makes it impossible to keep still.
It’s embarrassing how quickly he gets to me, how easily he pushes past every wall I’ve built over the last twelve years on the run.
All I want is to let my hand slip beneath my waistband and relieve the aching pressure I’ve been feeling ever since he left me high and dry against that mirror.
But I don’t. Because that would be bad. Years of pent-up sexuality and vague memories of confessing my sins to priests (“I lied to my parents, I stole a cookie from the kitchen, I thought Brad Pitt looked cute in that new movie”) have hammered it in my head that I should not resort to flicking the bean unless it’s very dark, very quiet, and very much behind locked doors.
The thought of Petyr coming back and finding me moaning his name is also a pretty good deterrent.
I let my useless hands drop to my sides. Without him, the penthouse is quiet. Too quiet. Just the low hum of the city outside and nothing else.
I catch myself glancing towards the door like an anxious golden retriever, waiting for Petyr to come back any second. I hate that my heart speeds up at the thought. I’m supposed to be keeping my guard up, not counting down the minutes.
I pull up my knees and wrap my arms around them. This thing between us—it’s nothing. Just chemistry, pure and simple. A physical thing at best. A means to a million-dollar end.
I need to remember that.
Because the second I don’t, bad things happen. Things like wanting too much or dreaming too much or disappointing Sister Margaret from Catholic school eighteen years ago.
Besides, he isn’t even that hot. Right?
Okay, wrong. He is that hot. And despite years of wearing out my thrifted copy of The Second Sex, my body doesn’t seem too interested in letting my mind weigh in on this. Logic is for upper brains. Lower brains? Whole other set of rules.
Which I’m still figuring out, because I’m a freaking virgin.
Though I suppose that definition is up for debate now.
I think about our dinner. The expensive wine, the crystal chandeliers. The taste of caviar still lingers on my tongue, delicate and delicious.
I catch myself wondering if this is what my life might have looked like if I never ran. My mind plays with the idea as my bare toes curl into the Egyptian cotton sheets, the city lights flickering across the glass.
Petyr isn’t what I pictured a Bratva husband to be. He’s funny in that sly way that sneaks up on you, sharper than I first gave him credit for. Tough, but fairer than he is obligated to be. And, sometimes, surprisingly kind.
But I’ve lived in this world before. I know better than to romanticize it.
My whole family taught me that lesson, one sad marriage after the other.
My gaze drifts to the dark skyline. I think of all the things men like Petyr do to keep their place at the top.
I’ve seen what lies under the charm: the calculated silences, the cold eyes when a decision has already been made.
The loneliness that leaks out of the crown and spreads to everyone around it.
Petyr Gubarev is dangerous. I can’t pretend he’s not. I’ve already seen the other side of him: the ruthless, single-minded leader willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants.
This whole thing started with him blackmailing into a wedding and kidnapping me, for fuck’s sake.
There will always be blood on his hands. No matter how gentle his touch feels now, that truth won’t ever change.
And I’d be a fool to forget it.
Still, I get it now. The appeal of the Bratva life. Being a trophy wife in the lap of luxury with nothing required of you other than popping out children and keeping the bed warm. It’s so uncomplicated on the surface, anyone could fall for it.
You just have to pray the surface never cracks.
In my experience, it always cracks, though.
If things were different… My thoughts drift into a fantasy. One where there are no cracked surfaces, no secrets lurking underneath. One where what Petyr and I have isn’t just a business arrangement, but something real.
I’m not so sure I would have been unhappy with a life like that.
The memory of Lara’s wedding day slaps me back to reality. I see her before my eyes, holding back tears as she takes her first shaking step down the aisle. I see the old, cruel man she was sold off to, who made her cry the second the vows were done.
I remember my father’s vicious indifference to my mother. He paraded his mistresses under her nose like trophies. I remember my brother Anatoli barking orders at his poor wife like she was nothing more than a glorified servant.
My mother, my sister, my sister-in-law—they all had their cages. No hope of a life that belonged to them. And if I start wishing for that? I’m betraying all their memories, every single one.
I shake the fantasy off. I was right to run. I was right to disappear. Marriage is a death trap—nothing less, nothing more.
And I’ll make damn sure I’m not caught in this one.
When I change for bed, determined to grab some sleep at last, I stand in front of the closet for a good thirty seconds.
The brand-new wardrobe Petyr insisted on buying for me is neatly folded into shopping bags.
I spy a pair of silk pajamas I didn’t pick, so soft to the touch it can’t possibly belong to me.
It doesn’t, my rational part reminds me. Nothing here is yours. Not really.
I don’t know why that makes me pluck out one of Petyr’s T-shirts out of the hamper instead, but it does.
I slip it on easily. The worn cotton feels familiar against my bare skin, even though it really shouldn’t. I’ve only slept in Petyr’s clothes once before, but somehow, I’ve already grown fond of it.
It’s just comfortable. That’s all.
I tell myself that as I slip under the covers. Definitely nothing to do with the memory of the heat in his eyes when he last saw me in something of his, or with the satisfaction of knowing he’s going to look at me the same way tomorrow morning.
Or with the way his scent hugs me, lulling me to sleep.