Chapter 32 Sima
SIMA
Three weeks go by in a flash.
I never imagined it would go like this. If anyone had told me my family’s sworn enemy was going to kidnap me, blackmail me into a marriage, and rock my world to get me pregnant to the point I never wanted to do anything else, I’d have asked for a hit of whatever they were smoking.
But that’s exactly what happened. Three weeks of pure marital bliss.
I’ve learned how he takes his coffee (black, but he’ll finish up mine if I ask, despite the ridiculous amount of sugar and cream), how to spot the faint dimple on his left cheek that means he’s holding back laughter, that he’s extremely particular about which side of the bed is his side of the bed.
Little things that sneak up on me when I’m not paying attention, but that bring me closer to figuring out who my husband is.
And then there’s everything else that happens on his side of the bed, too.
Petyr isn’t just insatiable. He’s also attentive, more than I ever could have expected. My pleasure always comes before his, often several times in a row. He’s hungry for it in ways I didn’t think were possible. He doesn’t just want me—he makes me feel wanted.
I’ve stopped pretending I don’t feel the same way or that I don’t think about the things we do at night every second of every day.
Because I do. Constantly. When I drink my morning coffee, when I try to focus in class, when I’m supposed to be cramming for a test… it’s just Petyr on my mind.
It’s almost enough to make me forget we’re on a clock. We just work together. Most real couples never get to experience this level of chemistry.
I’d know—I’ve seen my fair share.
Which is why the dull, tight ache in my stomach when I wake up makes my heart sink.
I push back the blankets and sit up slowly, blinking at the light sneaking in through the curtains. The house is quiet, like it always is. Perks of being nestled right in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, NY.
I can tell without getting up that Petyr has already left for work. His side of the bed is cool, the sheets folded neatly. Who even makes the bed when someone else is still sleeping in it?
My husband, that’s who. My control freak, sex beast of a husband.
Too bad that, for the first time in three weeks, sex is the furthest thing from my mind.
I roll onto my back and press my palm to my abdomen. It’s like I woke up with a squad of tiny construction workers all turning on their electric drills simultaneously inside my uterus.
Which can only mean one thing.
I just got my fucking period.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rush towards the bathroom. The floor is cold under my bare feet, but I don’t want to waste time looking for my slippers. Better to leave a couple of footprints than turn the polished hardwood floors of the Gubarev Mausoleum into Carrie’s prom scene.
I move automatically, grabbing what I need from the cabinet as I sit. When I spy the red splotch on my panties, I put my head in my hands and sigh.
“Fuck.”
I’m not usually one to get upset at Mother Nature for doing her thankless job. But for the last few days, my breasts have been tender, my moods all over the place, and my cravings absolutely out of control. And while that’s textbook PMS, a small, traitorous part of me wondered if…
… if maybe I was pregnant already.
I didn’t let myself dwell on it. I know better than to indulge in the toxic fumes of hope. But the thought was still there, hovering, like a balloon I wasn’t sure I wanted to pop.
I’m not sure how I feel now that it has in fact gone kaboom.
Petyr won’t like this. That’s the first thought that grips me.
He’ll be disappointed, I’m sure of it. He’s worked so hard to put a baby in me.
And yeah, granted, I don’t think it was exactly an unpleasant ordeal for him, but still.
This whole arrangement hinges on me getting pregnant.
That’s the endgame, not the—admittedly amazing—sexathon sessions.
So why do I feel relieved, too?
I slap both my cheeks. It’s okay, right?
If I’m not pregnant, that means we’ll have to try again next month.
It means more of Petyr naked above me, staring at me with those honey-brown eyes that always seem to get darker when we’re in bed.
It means biting his name into the pillow and gasping it between kisses.
It means more of us.
Because, once that baby’s finally inside me, then there won’t be any real excuse to keep it going. The deal will be fulfilled. My end, at least.
And then, nine months later, I’ll be packing up for good.
“Snap out of it,” I tell myself. “You knew what you were in for. You don’t get to act all mopey now.”
So I take a shower. I dump my bloody underwear in the hamper and stick a tampon in me. After all the exercise Petyr put me through, it feels damn near effortless.
I pop an ibuprofen in my mouth and walk down to breakfast, my books tucked under my arm. I need to focus on my classes. Put Petyr out of my mind for good.
For the rest of the day, that’s exactly what I do.
By the time I’m back at Hill House, it’s late afternoon. The sun is painting orange flecks on the evergreens, making the woods look almost peaceful.
I drop my bag on the couch and fall on it like a sack of potatoes.
“Hey there, roomie,” says a snide voice.
Fucking shitballs, here we go.
I try to give my best shark week smile. “Hi, Kira. Were you waiting for me at the door, or did you hide behind it and forget to say ‘boo’?”
She arches an eyebrow, like she wasn’t expecting me to call her out on her obvious ambush.
But fuck it, I’m not pregnant, my uterus is being remodeled by a crew of angry wasps, and I just spent eight consecutive hours with my ass glued to a plastic chair straight out of the Spanish Inquisition.
She can damn well deal with my attitude.
She swirls her glass. The dark liquid inside it looks expensive. Wine, perhaps, or the blood of virgins. “So, no double pink line this month, huh?”
I turn to stone. “Excuse me?”
She flashes a triumphant smile, very punchable. “Such a pity,” she croons, not sounding sorry at all. “I was so looking forward to being an aunt.”
She knows I’m not pregnant. The realization burns hot through me. There’s no way she should have that information, not when I haven’t even told Petyr yet.
Which means she’s either been going through my dirty laundry and the bathroom trash, or she’s got a drug dog level sense of smell, but for embryos.
Or Anya told her. I hate that thought, but I can’t put it out of my mind. That woman’s hated me since day one. What if she’s been slipping Kira information all along?
Whatever the case, it’s creepy as hell. What does she even care if Petyr knocks me up, anyway? Why is she so invested in what goes on inside my womb? Is she running for Congress or something?
Nausea surges through me, mixing with rage. For the invasion of privacy, the utter lack of respect, and the poisonous pleasure plastered all across her pretty face.
I stride across the room and stare her down. Her glass clinks against my necklace. For a second—only a second—she flinches, as if she’s afraid her savage sister-in-law plucked from the slums will claw her eyes out.
Good. Let her think that.
“Next time my vagina bleeds, I’ll be sure to notify you post-haste.” I speak the words directly into her face. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to study.”
I catch a faint twitch at the corner of her eye. Nerves, or maybe fear. Then it’s gone.
“But of course,” she answers, sweet as poisoned honey. “You should work on your backup plan. Get that degree before you’re booted out of here without a penny to your name.”
“Is that how you think this is gonna go?”
“Yes.” Her hips sway as she steps even closer, matching my challenge. “We both know how this works.”
I realize the smell of wine isn’t all coming from the glass—it’s coming from her. She’s sloshed.
“Enlighten me,” I grit.
“A pakhan only gets married for one reason.” Her smile turns cutting. “Heirs. And if you can’t give Petyr that… Well, he’ll just have to look elsewhere.”
I bite back a sharp laugh. God, is she for real?
She thinks this is about biology. As if I’ve got some kind of complex about my reproductive bits that she can feed into. She has no idea that Petyr and I already made that deal—and that we’re both perfectly fine with him going elsewhere if I end up not working out.
But are we? a small, treacherous voice inside me whispers.
I swat it away and let my lips curl. “Thanks for the advice,” I murmur. “We should do this more often. What do you say? Want to crack open your third bottle of the night and gossip about boys?”
Her eyes narrow. “Careful, sobachka. I don’t have to play nice.”
“Good,” I spit. “I like it much better when people call me a bitch to my face. Don’t you?”
With another twitch of her face, she turns sharply and leaves.
I drop back onto the couch. Today has been fucking exhausting. My mood to study has all but evaporated.
As I head upstairs, Kira’s words keep burning a hole in my head. What if this really doesn’t work out? What if Petyr does have to go to someone else for his heir?
Would I really be okay with that?
You have no choice. My rational mind sets me straight. This is a business arrangement.
Right. That’s all this is. I’m not here to stay. I never was.
So why do I feel like part of me wants to?