Chapter 45
SIMA
Back at the penthouse, I pace across the bedroom.
My breath is shallow and ragged, like I just ran up every flight of stairs of Petyr’s ridiculous skyscraper. My heart won’t slow down, too busy pounding against my ribcage as if it wants to break free. I press a hand against it, but the thundering doesn’t stop.
It only reminds me of the truth: Maksim saw me.
He knows I’m alive now.
The realization keeps circling around and around in my head. Maksim—my baby brother, the only one I ever trusted—knows. And if he knows, it’s only a matter of time before Anatoli knows, before my father knows.
My chest tightens, a band of panic squeezing until I can’t draw a full breath.
I stop at the window to clutch the curtain in my fist and stare out over the glittering city below. For twelve years, I lived like a ghost to avoid this exact moment. I built walls, took up new names for myself, buried the girl I used to be so deep she’d never be found.
But Maksim found me. One glance, and the whole fragile lie came crashing down.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press the forehead against the cool glass. He wouldn’t tell them. I try desperately to convince myself of that.
Maksim and I loved each other when we were kids. I used to sneak him sweets when Dad wasn’t looking, and he used to defend me when my other brothers got too rough with me. He was always my baby brother, the only pure one in a litter of wolves.
But that’s all in the past. We’re not children anymore. He’s grown into one of them now. The suit, the tattoos, the gun—everything about him confirms it. And loyalty to the family comes first, always.
He’ll tell Anatoli. Or worse, he’ll tell our father directly.
And then there’ll be hell to pay.
A tremor rips through me. I dig my nails into my palms, lean into the windowed wall to keep upright.
It’s not my other brothers knowing that terrifies me. Oddly enough, it isn’t even my father knowing.
It’s Petyr finding out like this.
What will he think of me when he discovers who I am? That the wife he dragged into his bed, the woman he claimed so fiercely, carries the blood of his family’s greatest enemy?
He’ll hate me. He’ll despise me. Maybe worse.
Hot tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back and start pacing again, faster this time. I can’t let it come to that. I need to act before it does.
I need to run.
But my gaze strays to the bed, messy from this morning. His side of the sheets is still rumpled with the shape of his body.
I sink down onto the edge and touch the space where he was. Every instinct screams at me to flee, to disappear before the net tightens. And yet, the thought of leaving him makes my chest ache in a different way.
I tip my head back and whisper into the silence, “What am I going to do?”
Before I can even think about an answer, I hear the front door unlock.
My heart lurches up into my throat as I jump to my feet. I’m not ready for him to see me like this. I don’t have the strength to explain. Or worse, to lie well enough to convince him nothing is wrong.
The bedroom door opens, and there he is, larger than life in the doorway, his presence filling the space even before he steps inside. His gaze finds me instantly. Concern sharpens the edges of his expression, softening his usual hardness.
“Luka said you weren’t feeling well.” His voice is calm, but there’s a thread of steel under it, like he’s already preparing for a fight with whatever’s put me in this state.
I take a breath to steady myself. If I falter for even a second, everything will come spilling out. The truth, the fear, the ugly tangle of guilt and longing clawing at me.
I swallow hard and whisper, “Migraine.” The sound is croaky, thin, but it comes out. “I… I’ve got a migraine.”
He moves closer. His eyes flick over my face, taking in every twitch, every tremor I can’t hide. My palms are damp and clenched into fists at my sides.
“A migraine,” he repeats quietly. He doesn’t call me a liar, though I can see the suspicion lurking just behind his stare. Instead, he reaches out and brushes the back of his knuckles over my temple, feather-light. “Then you should be lying down.”
Tears threaten to leak out at the gentle touch. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep them away and nod, fumbling back toward the bed. He watches me like a hawk every step of the way.
When I sit on the edge of the mattress, he kneels in front of me, his hands warm on my legs. His closeness makes it harder to breathe and yet easier at the same time.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says firmly. “Just tell me what you need.”
What I need is for the past not to come clawing back into my life. For Maksim not to have seen me. For the truth to stay buried.
But none of those things are possible, so I nod mutely instead, whispering, “Just… stay.”
He rises to join me and we curl up on the bed, his arm sliding firmly around my waist, drawing me back against his chest until I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The warmth of him seeps into me, anchoring me even as my mind continues to spin, storm clouds colliding in the corners of my thoughts.
“What do you want to watch?” he murmurs into my hair.
The simple question takes me by surprise. He almost always chooses—some gory documentary, some brutal piece of history—and I almost always let him.
But tonight, with my nerves frayed to threads and my heart still racing, I want something else. Something lighter. Something safe.
“How about… Young Frankenstein?”
Petyr stills for a beat. “Mel Brooks? Really?”
I force a small smile, playing it off. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”
Suddenly, I want to tell him more. I want to tell him how Lara and I used to watch every Mel Brooks movie we could find, how we’d sneak the old DVDs into our room and muffle our laughter with pillows, terrified of being caught.
I want to tell him it was one of the last things that made me feel normal, safe, before she was married off and I was left alone.
The memory hovers at the edge of my lips, aching to spill. For the first time, I want to share it with him.
But then Maksim’s face flashes in my mind. His hand gripping my arm, his voice calling my name like no time had passed. Panic coils hot and sharp in my stomach.
If I tell Petyr about Lara, about what we used to do together, it would lead too close to the truth I’ve buried. The truth that could unravel everything.
So I swallow the words, forcing them back down where they belong.
Petyr studies me, like he knows I’m holding something back, but doesn’t push. Maybe he sees the shadows under my eyes. Maybe he just knows I need him to let it go.
Without another word, he scrolls until he finds it, presses play, and the screen lights up with that familiar black-and-white. He tucks me tighter under his arm, holding me like he knows I need it.
The overture sweeps through the room, tugging me briefly into another life. For a moment, I’m not Sima the unwilling bride, not the fugitive daughter of a cursed family. I’m just a girl curled on the couch with a boy, laughing until our sides hurt at Gene Wilder’s manic brilliance.
When Igor appears, his hunch swapping sides, Petyr huffs a laugh through his nose. “That’s absurd,” he mutters, but his mouth curves despite himself.
I grin into his chest. “What did you expect? Subtlety?”
Later, when Frau Blücher’s name makes the horses whinny off-screen, he actually chuckles out loud, shaking his head. “Really? That’s the joke?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling in spite of the dread still curling in my stomach. “And it’s perfect.”
By the time Gene Wilder is shouting, “It’s alive!” in over-the-top triumph, Petyr has said, “This is ridiculous” no less than twenty-five times, but I can feel the laughter rumbling in his chest anyway.
I soak in that vibration against my back, low and warm, and my chest aches in a way I can’t name.
I close my eyes, letting that sound wash over me. The heat of his body and the press of his arm make me feel—if only for this small, stolen stretch of time—like I belong here. As long as I have that, I am safe.
So I cling to that illusion. I hold on as if I can will it to last.
Because deep down, I know it can’t. Sooner or later, this bubble will burst. The truth will find us.
But not now. Not yet. Not here. Not like this.
For tonight, at least, I’m safe.