Chapter 38 Petyr
PETYR
Dinner is quiet at first. We sit across from each other at a no-name diner that Sima recommended. The food is greasy to the point I start worrying about busting a coronary just from eating a single bite.
But Sima seems to love it, so I make myself eat.
“Ahhh,” she hums like she’s in heaven. “Fried chicken and waffles. Breakfast of champions.”
“We’re having dinner.”
“Same difference.” She waves away my protest, then fixes her eyes on my fork. “You always look like you’re negotiating a truce with your food.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare at people while they eat?”
“Nope.” She flashes me a cheeky, greasy grin. “Besides, it’s hard not to.”
“Is it?”
“Yep.” She pops another unspeakably oily bite in her mouth. “Especially when you sit there glaring at that piece of fried chicken like it owes you money.”
“It might.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips curve. “Poor chicken. Shaken down by the big bad Bratva boss.”
I shake my head, but the sound that escapes me is closer to a laugh than a sigh. She’s the only one who can get away with shit like this. Anyone else, I’d have skewered with my fork.
But with Sima, it doesn’t feel like disrespect. It just feels… normal. Easy.
We eat a little more in companionable silence. I watch her guzzle down what feels like half a gallon of sugary soda. How she keeps that slim figure is beyond me.
“You know,” she pipes up after she’s done, “for a criminal kingpin, you’ve got surprisingly decent table manners. I expected more burping and, like, knife waving.”
“Knife waving?” I repeat, incredulous.
“Yeah. Like, stab the air to make a point while quoting some terrifying proverb you definitely made up. Isn’t that part of the job description?”
“You’re confusing me with The Godfather.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve been hiding your true, dramatic self. Should I be worried you’re going to pull out a monologue with dessert?”
“Depends on the dessert,” I say, deadpan. “But if it’s anything fried or sugary, I’ll have to ask my lawyer to step in.”
She bursts into laughter, full and warm. For a second, the tension of the day slips from my shoulders. I never cared for dinners with women before. Never cared to extend my acquaintance with them beyond the bedroom.
But this? Sitting here, listening to her tease me, feeling her bright eyes on me as if she’s actually seeing me instead of the Gubarev pakhan? It’s refreshing. I could get used to it.
I realize that must have been exactly her intention—to cheer me up after that hospital visit.
I shouldn’t have taken Sima there. She asked for a day off. Instead, I cooped her up in a museum for hours and then brought her to meet my dying brother. Not exactly date material.
But seeing all those relics reminded me of the person who introduced me to my passion for history.
Dimitri used to listen to me for hours, always interested in what I had to say.
I’m not proud of the moment of weakness, but I also can’t fully bring myself to regret showing Sima to the most important person in my life.
This might be fake, but Dimitri would have wanted to know the woman I married.
He would have loved her. That sobering thought wipes away any appetite I had for dessert. They could have spent hours joking at my expenses.
When the plates are cleared, we go to the car. The drive home should feel like routine, but it doesn’t.
I realize she’s been quiet for a while.
“Sima.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve got something on your mind.”
She stares out the window, her reflection ghosted in the glass. “It’s nothing.”
“Sima.”
She sighs, finally turning her head towards me. “It’s just…” She shakes her head, frustrated when the words won’t come. “You lead a very dangerous life.”
My brow arches. “You knew that.”
“I thought I did, too. But seeing Dimitri like that…” She twists her hands in her lap. “It got to me, I guess. I can’t stop thinking—what if it had been you?”
“It would have made a lot of things easier,” I say, a bitter note to my voice. “For everyone involved.”
“Not for me.”
“You wouldn’t be involved. You’re only here because I made you.”
But she shakes her head again. “I don’t care about that. I just don’t like thinking about the possibility of you in that bed, hooked to machines. It scares me.”
You should be scared. Not of the hypothetical world where I ended up in that hospital instead of my brother, but of the real one. The one where I ensnared you and made you mine.
I grip the wheel tighter, unsure what to do with the warmth and the ache that rushes through me. Because Sima cares, and that was never part of the plan.
“You know what I do,” I rumble. “You know the risks.”
“I do.” She nods, eyes on her hands. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
My chest throbs, not with anger or suspicion, but with something far more dangerous.
I should remind her—remind myself—that this isn’t real.
She’s only here because I sniffed her out and blackmailed her into vows.
Because my father left me with an empire to run and a will to uphold, and I couldn’t do the former without dealing with the latter first.
But all I manage is a rough, quiet, “It bothers you.”
She looks back at me. “I mean, yeah. Of course it does. Arrangement or not, you’re still you. You’re my husband.”
The car falls into silence again, but it’s not the same silence as before. This one is heavy with everything unsaid.
You’re you. You’re my husband. You matter.
She matters, too. Despite every attempt I made at keeping her at a distance, she matters.
And I’m tired of pretending she doesn’t.
The second the front door slams shut behind us, I pin her to the wall and kiss her.
“Petyr—”
“Hush.” I press my finger to her lips. “No more talking.”
Her eyes go liquid, and she nods once.
I kiss her again, and again, and again. The rest of the world disappears with each clash of our lips.
The Bratva, Mikhael, Kira, even the goddamn Danilos—everything fades into background noise.
It’s just her, standing there in the low light, looking at me with those dark, clever eyes that make me forget everything that’s ever mattered.
I hoist her into my arms and walk her upstairs. She writhes against me, her body grinding against mine with every step.
The moment we cross the threshold to the bedroom, I lower her to the mattress and start peeling off her clothes.
I take my time undressing her. Not because I want to tease her—though I do—but because I need to. Need to savor every second of this, of her.
I tug her sweater over her head, revealing the soft curve of her shoulders. Then I slide her jeans down her hips, so, so slow. My mouth follows, brushing over every inch of skin I uncover, dragging sighs out of her throat that shoot straight down my spine.
By the time I have her bare before me, my control is already hanging by a thread.
I spread her out on the bed, kissing along the inside of her thighs until she’s squirming, begging.
It drives me fucking crazy—the scent, the taste. How wet she is for me. Finally, her thighs clamp around my head, hands twisting in my hair.
“Petyr,” she whimpers. “Please.”
I raise my head, my chin wet with her juices. “Not yet,” I murmur. “I’m not done teasing you, lisichka.”
She groans, frustration and need mixing together. It sends blood pumping low. Knowing I can unravel her like this, make her forget every thought except me—it’s fucking intoxicating.
I give her a slow kiss that leaves her gasping. She can taste herself on my tongue, and the thought alone punches right between my legs. Her body is trembling, begging silently for more.
When I finally settle between her legs, I press into her slowly, inch by inch, savoring the heat of her. Her eyes widen, her lips parting around a soft cry.
Her eyes flutter closed, but I catch her chin in my hand. “No,” I growl. “Stay with me.”
Her lashes lift. When her gaze locks with mine, something breaks inside me. This isn’t lust. Well, not exclusively. Whatever this explosive thing between us is, it’s far more dangerous than that.
I hold her gaze as I start to move. Her nails rake down my back, her face twisted with pleasure as she bucks her hips towards mine.
I start fucking her harder, faster, deeper. “You feel so fucking good,” I rasp against her ear. “So fucking tight around me.”
I can feel her getting closer, her body tightening, her breaths coming faster. My control starts slipping. I’m supposed to be in charge, but every sound she makes drags me closer to the edge.
“Say it,” I order, thrusting deep inside her. “Say you’re mine.”
“Yes,” she gasps, clinging to me. “I’m yours.”
I press my forehead to hers, sweat mixing between us. “That’s it,” I murmur, low and filthy. “Come for me. I want to see you fall apart for me. Only me.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants, too far gone for shame. “Only you.”
A couple more thrusts, and her body clenches around me. Sima shatters in my arms, and watching her come undone while looking at me—only me—is what does it. I slam into her hard, groaning as I spill inside her.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I stay inside her, holding her close, my breath ragged against her neck. Her heartbeat pounds against my chest, quick and wild, and I can’t look away from her flushed face, her swollen lips. Her eyes, still hazy from pleasure.
And in that moment, I let myself imagine it: Sima, full with my child, tied to me forever.
The thought should scare me. It should make me stop whatever this is and look for another candidate, one that hasn’t sunk so deeply into me.
But I can’t even consider the thought. Instead, the fall feels inevitable. It feels like the only thing that makes sense.
She’s mine. And I’m not letting her go.
Not even if it breaks me.