Chapter 37 Sima
SIMA
We spend the rest of the day at the museum. We grab a bite to eat at the cafeteria, then go right back to diving into the exhibitions. I never thought so many hours spent between glass cases could be interesting, but somehow, Petyr manages to make it fun. I could listen to him for days.
“So?” I quip as we slide back into the car. “Where to next? Shall we raid a restaurant? Pillage the coffee cart?”
Petyr’s lips quirk, but he doesn’t laugh like he did earlier. There’s something different in his eyes now, a dimness that wasn’t there moments ago.
Just as I’m wondering how to breach the subject, he breaks the silence. “I want to introduce you to someone.”
The way he says it makes me sit up straighter. I’m used to hearing him sound all kinds of sour-mooded. Angry? Sure. Annoyed? Daily. But this isn’t anything like that. This is…
Sadness. The realization hits all at once. He’s sad about something.
I reconsider the look on his face. Suddenly, he looks that much more human.
“Okay,” I answer slowly. “Someone like… your mom? Or is this a ‘meet the guys’ sort of thing? Because, fair warning, I’m not great at icebreakers. Or sports. Oh, God, they won’t ask me about sports, will they?”
“You’ll see,” he says simply.
I fall quiet, staring out the window as the city passes by in a blur of headlights and neon. My reflection looks back at me, tight-lipped, unsettled. Seeing Petyr like this rattles me more than I want to admit.
This isn’t part of the deal. Being invested in his well-being, worrying about him… But I am all of those things. I shouldn’t care, but God help me, I think I do. Against my better judgment, against every self-preservation instinct I own, I care.
That’s not good.
The car ride stretches in heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the engine. I sneak glances at Petyr. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw set, hands firm on the steering wheel. He doesn’t look at me. I wonder what it says about me that I want him to.
I take this perfect opportunity to remind myself of the rules. Don’t get attached. Don’t confuse this arrangement with anything else. Don’t imagine what it would be like if things were different.
Because he won’t.
Because they aren’t.
But the harder I push these thoughts down, the more insistent they become.
When we pull up, I glance at the building—and my stomach knots.
The hospital.
Why are we here? I’m getting a sinking feeling in my gut, the kind that usually means I’m better off sprinting in the opposite direction. Part of me must already know what’s waiting on the other side of those doors. That I won’t like it.
But Petyr is looking at me expectantly, so I swallow the lump and follow him inside.
The fluorescent lights make everything look a thousand times grimmer. A crime scene, or the first five minutes of a post-apocalyptic zombie movie.
Petyr reaches the front desk and signs us in. The nurse only looks up once, sees it’s him, and doesn’t say anything. Just gives him a respectful, familiar bow of the head and lets him carry on.
We walk down the sterile hallway. I can hear the faint buzzing of machines behind closed doors. My throat feels dry, like it’s coated in chalk. I hate hospitals. Hate the smell of bleach that covers up the decay.
But Petyr keeps moving, so I do, too.
Finally, he stops in front of a room. Two black-suited bodyguards are posted outside. They both bow their heads, muttering, “Pakhan,” in greeting.
He opens the door.
We step inside.
And then I see him.
A man lies in the bed, pale as the sheets. Tubes and wires keep him tethered to life. His chest rises and falls only because the machines make it rise and fall. He doesn’t look alive, not in any way. I almost don’t recognize him.
But then the pieces click together.
“Meet Dimitri,” Petyr whispers quietly. “ My brother.”
My stomach twists hard. I paste on a neutral expression, but inside, I’m spiraling.
This is his brother. The man my family gunned down.
The only survivor of the attack that killed Petyr’s father.
Calling him “survivor” feels like a stretch, though.
Petyr stiffens next to me, his jaw locking, hands flexing once before he stills them. For the first time, I can see the cracks in his armor. He just stares at Dimitri, silent, as though the sight of his brother in this bed is both unbearable and impossible to turn away from.
It reminds me of Lara. The way she looked on her wedding day, half-gone already.
My fingers twitch. I almost reach for Petyr. I want to comfort him, tell him everything is going to be okay, even though we both know it’s not. Even though it’d be just one more lie between us.
But then I let my arm drop back to my side.
I don’t have any right to comfort him. I’m not here to stay, and lying about that, even with a simple gesture like this, would be too unfair. Worse—it’d be cruel.
So I just watch, aching with him in silence, and come to stand by his side.
The ache is what scares me most. Because it’s yet another reminder that I’m breaking my first rule: I’m caring.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s the only thing I can think to say.
Petyr nods once. He doesn’t seem to hold my lack of eloquence against me. “You have nothing to feel sorry for. You didn’t do this.”
But I did. The truth churns uncomfortably in my chest. I may not have pulled the trigger, may not have known that this was going to happen, but it was still my family who did it. My father, my brother. My blood.
“Will he ever wake up?” I realize the question is insensitive seconds after I’ve spoken it.
Again, Petyr doesn’t hold it against me. “No.” He shakes his head once, eyes fixed on Dimitri’s ashen face. “The doctors say it would take a miracle. And I don’t believe in miracles.”
I don’t, either. I keep that to myself, but my silence speaks just as loud.
It’s the one thing I can’t bring myself to lie about: hope. When I lost all hope for Lara, the single worst thing anyone could have done was tell me everything was going to be okay. That she was going to come back to me, the same as she’d always been.
Fairytales don’t come true. Not in this world, and not in the next.
Petyr brushes a stray curl out of his brother’s forehead. Then he leans in closer, murmuring something low in Russian. The lilt of my native language is familiar, but I still can’t catch the words.
I wonder if he’s telling his brother the same thing he told me.
Brother… meet my wife.”
But that would be ridiculous, so I push it out of my mind.
I’m not important. Dimitri is. He’s family, he’s here, he’s real. And if lives could be traded, I’d be the first to say he should do it. Trade me in for the brother he lost.
Again—fairytales.
“Do you think he hears you?” I whisper before I can stop myself. “That he knows you’re here?”
“I don’t know.” When he straightens up again, I watch him fix his ice mask back into place. Seeing him rebuild his walls right in front of me makes my chest tighten painfully. “There are studies. But I’d like to think that, if he heard me, he’d answer.”
“You must miss him,” I say eventually. “The way he was.” It’s the only thing I know from experience—the pain of losing your sibling to senseless cruelty.
I don’t think he’ll answer me. But Petyr’s rebuilt walls must not have reached the sky yet, because he murmurs, “Every day.”
I hate how weak that makes me. It makes me want to reach for him. To comfort him, when I shouldn’t want anything at all.
Without speaking, I slip my fingers through his.
At first, Petyr’s grip is slack. But then I feel his fingers tighten around mine, the barest hint of pressure.
That’s when Kira walks in, shattering the moment.
My gaze lifts to hers. For a second, our eyes meet. Hers are puffy, I see, rimmed red from crying. I take stock of her smudged makeup, the way her thin arms hug her frame for warmth that won’t come.
I can’t help it: I feel sorry for her. She lost Dimitri, too. Lost her husband, her standing, her future. And now, here she is, trapped in a half-life, tethered to a man who will likely never open his eyes again.
The itch to comfort her burns under my skin. We may have started on the wrong foot, but being petty in the face of tragedy just isn’t in my nature. I’m about to reach out, say something—
—and then Kira’s fingers brush flirtatiously along Petyr’s arm.
My sympathy curdles like rotten milk.
Her smile is sticky-sweet. Petyr glances at her hand briefly, but doesn’t quite step back. Only shifts so that it falls back to her side again.
“Kira. I thought you’d be resting.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She flashes him a sad half-smile that looks absolutely perfect.
It makes me wonder if I should be calling up the Academy, tell them to bring a golden statuette.
Maybe bash her head in with it. “But I’m glad I ran into you.
I wanted to go over a few things with you.
About Dimitri, and…” She gives a pause that feels intentional. “Other matters.”
Call me crazy, but I don’t like the way she’s looking at Petyr. It’s too familiar. I’ve seen that look on the faces of every single one of my father’s mistresses as they let themselves be paraded before my mother, already picturing themselves in her shoes as the new and improved Mrs. Danilo.
It’s the look of ambition.
I taste sharp, bitter jealousy on my tongue. I want to yank her away, step in, stake a claim I technically don’t even have. Remind her that he’s mine, even if he isn’t.
He’s your husband, my heart protests.
Not in any way that matters, my head replies.
So I just stand there, nails biting into my palms, feigning indifference while I’m simmering on the inside. I don’t have the right to make a scene. I’m supposed to be temporary, a means to an end. As soon as our deal is fulfilled, I’ll be gone.
And yet, watching her try to cling to his arm again makes my chest ache like I’ve already lost something that was never mine to begin with.
“Later.” Petyr steps back, fixing his cufflinks. He doesn’t seem to like Kira’s overtures, but whatever I just saw, he must have missed. No way he’d be reacting so calmly otherwise. “Go home now. Rest.”
“Are you?” she presses. “Going home?”
“Yes,” Petyr says. “We are.”
Then he raises our linked fingers to show her.
I’m not expecting that gesture. It’s… sweet, in an odd sort of way.
Kira’s face sours. “Then I guess I’ll stay. Can’t very well have Dimitri wake up to an empty room, can we?”
The accusation is so uncalled for, the urge to slap her makes my palm tingle.
But Petyr just inclines his head in agreement. “As you wish.”
Then we’re out of there.
As we walk away, I throw a glance behind my shoulder. Kira’s puffy eyes meet mine again, but this time, the redness seems to have moved elsewhere. Her cheeks are flaming. Somehow, I don’t think that’s shame.
If anything, it looks like fury.