Chapter 39 Sima
SIMA
I’m lying in Petyr’s arms, still trembling. My body feels boneless, heavy, like it’s trying to melt into him.
I should be thinking about boundaries. About escape plans. About reminding myself this is temporary.
Instead, all I can think is, God help me, I don’t ever want to move.
I better get pregnant soon. That thought is as cold as ice water, but it’s true. Because the longer I stay in this bed with him, and the more often we do this, the harder it’ll be to leave.
And I will have to leave. That was always the deal.
Except, right now, with his heartbeat steady under my ear and his arm curled securely around me, the idea of leaving feels less like a plan and more like an amputation.
He shifts out from under me. I prop myself up on one elbow, watching as he pads across the room: naked, unhurried, utterly at ease in his skin.
God, he looks like a statue. A Greek deity chiseled from marble. Is it possible to still be this thirsty after three orgasms in a row? Apparently, my horniness knows no bounds.
He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth. My breath hitches because it’s such a small thing, thoughtful in a way I didn’t expect.
He doesn’t say anything, just gently presses it to me, careful and deliberate. My cheeks heat with an embarrassment I can’t quite name, but I let him help me. Somehow, that quiet intimacy rattles me more than the sex did.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He just gives me a small nod, disposes of the cloth, then clicks off the lamp. The room plunges into darkness, broken only by the faint light seeping in through the curtains. He slips back into bed, warm and solid, and pulls me against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I close my eyes. But my mind won’t stop spinning.
When he asked me earlier what was wrong, I wasn’t entirely honest. Yes, seeing Dimitri hooked up to machines gutted me, and yes, the thought of losing Petyr terrifies me more than I want to admit.
But what I didn’t say—what I couldn’t say—is how much it bothered me watching Kira with him. The way she reached for him, like she had some claim. The way he kept moving back, which should have reassured me, but instead just lit up the jealous wife alarm bells in my head.
Jealous wife. That’s what I’ve become. Which is ridiculous, because I’m not supposed to be his anything. I’m a stand-in, a vessel, a temporary arrangement with an expiration date. So why does my stomach knot at the thought of someone else touching him?
I tuck my face against his chest, inhaling the clean, masculine scent of him. My lips almost brush his skin, and the words almost spill out—some half-joking, half-serious complaint about him collecting admirers like spare cufflinks.
But I bite them back. Because I can’t let him know I care. I can’t let him know how much space he’s taking up in my head.
Instead, I let him trace lazy patterns down my spine with his fingertip. Every stroke makes my eyelids heavier.
After a while, he says, “You’re quiet. That’s dangerous.”
I huff a little laugh. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the free massage.”
“That’s what you call this?” he teases, dragging his fingertip slowly from the top of my spine to the small of my back. “You’ve got low standards.”
“Free is free. If you want to add hot stones, I won’t complain.”
He chuckles under his breath. “I’ll have them delivered.”
“Perfect. Nothing says romance like mob-funded spa services.”
His finger lingers at the base of my spine, and I feel him exhale. “You always have a smart answer, don’t you?”
“Occupational hazard,” I mutter into his chest. “If I stop, you’ll get suspicious.”
His chest shakes faintly with another laugh, but he doesn’t push. Just keeps tracing those maddening lines over my back, and I just keep pretending they’re not unraveling me one inch at a time.
Slowly, the tiredness of the day pulls me under. But every time I’m about to doze off, my anxiety drags me back to cruel awareness, filling my brain with unwelcome images.
Kira, with her manicured hands on Petyr’s arm.
Kira, with her painted lips at Petyr’s ear.
Kira, claiming Petyr for herself right before my eyes.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “You still awake?” I whisper into the darkness.
A long-suffering sigh. “No.”
I roll my eyes. Then, just to be extra annoying, I sit up and flick the lamp back on.
Petyr immediately squints and throws an arm over his face. “Cruel woman,” he groans.
“You’ll live,” I say, tucking my legs under me. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”
“That sounds problematic.” He lowers his arm enough to peer at me, eyes narrowed against the light. “Go on.”
I hesitate, chewing my lip. “Is Kira… okay? She seems… very attached to you.”
He exhales, the sound more weary than irritated. “She’s insecure. With Dimitri in the state he’s in, she’s scared. Afraid of what happens to her if he doesn’t wake up.”
A pang of guilt pricks at me, though I’m relieved he doesn’t ask me to elaborate. He noticed, too, then. “Because she was supposed to be the pakhan’s wife,” I say quietly.
He nods once. “That’s what they both thought. They believed they had more time to start a family. But now, my father’s gone. Dimitri isn’t expected to survive. And she’s left in the middle, unsure of where she belongs.”
I study his profile in the warm lamplight. There’s no softness there, no indulgence, but there’s no cruelty, either. Just fact. Responsibility weighing heavy, the way it always does with him.
“She’s afraid you’ll marry her off,” I murmur, “or send her back to her family.”
He shakes his head firmly. “I won’t. That isn’t what Dimitri would have wanted.”
I twist the edge of the sheet between my fingers. Guilt gnaws at me for thinking ill of Kira, and yet, I can’t shake the feeling that something else is going on. Something more than what Petyr sees.
Maybe it’s an outdated cliché, but women really do have a sixth sense for stuff like this. In my life, I’ve seen enough to know. Especially at home.
And I don’t want to end up like my mother.
“Were they close?” I ask, trying to gather more information about the woman who may or may not be plotting my demise under my own roof. “Kira and Dimitri?”
Petyr’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Dimitri and I didn’t talk about that.”
“‘That’ being marriage?”
He nods. “Or feelings.”
“Right. Feelings are for pussies.”
His lips curve. Without warning, he presses me down on the mattress, suddenly above me. “Say that word again in front of me,” he whispers, low and husky, “and I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
I so badly want to say it again. Be like a five-year-old, just blurt out a vulgar word on repeat and see what it gets me.
But it’s late, and my body is still reeling from the sexathon this man just put me through. I may be hungry for him, but I can’t gorge myself every night like this.
Petyr must feel the same way, because he flops back onto his side, facing me. “She’ll come around,” he says. “Once she realizes you’re not a threat to her.” Hesitation lingers in his gaze, a rare sight. “We both lost a piece of us. Becoming whole again… It’ll take time.”
I nod. There’s something sad in that, something that makes my chest ache even though it’s not my grief to carry.
I want to believe him. I really do. But as I curl back into his chest and flick off the lamp, I can’t shake the chill in my stomach.
The one that tells me, in no uncertain terms, that I should keep my running shoes under the bed, ready to be slipped on at a moment’s notice.