Chapter 51 Sima
SIMA
It’s been ten seconds, and Petyr still hasn’t said a word.
Fifteen seconds.
Twenty seconds.
Way too many freaking seconds.
I swallow. Petyr looks me up and down, his expression unreadable. For a small eternity, I feel like a teenage cheerleader who just told the quarterback he’s not gonna be able to fuck his way through college after all, because his bun is in my oven and my dad owns a woodchipper.
Fuck.
Petyr’s mouth opens and closes, a goldfish in Bratva tattoos. Any other time, this would have been the highlight of my day. Funniest thing to happen all week, really.
But this isn’t any other time. I just told my mobster baby daddy I’m pregnant. In my very limited experience as a mob wife, that tends to suck the fun out of things.
Again: Fuck.
Nerves twist my insides like someone wringing out a wet rag. My whole world feels like it’s teetering.
I’m pregnant by a man who hates my family, who has every reason to. My brother, Anatoli, most likely operating under my father’s orders, killed Petyr’s father and put his brother in a coma. That’s not the kind of thing you get over in a few sessions of couple’s therapy.
Now, Petyr’s child is inside me. The heir to the Gubarev empire, the future of New York’s underworld, living rent free in my uterus. The irony is so thick I could spread it on toast.
Here I am, catching actual feelings for the man who forced me into this marriage.
A man who made it very clear from day one that I was nothing more than a means to an end.
And now that that end is here—now that his heir is officially on board the Shitshow Express—I might as well slap a Mission Accomplished sticker across my forehead and bow out.
The thought makes me want to cry. This could be the last time we ever have sex. The last time he ever sleeps beside me, lets me curl into his side, or brushes his rough hand down my back like I’m precious to him.
And I fucking hate it.
So I sit there and watch him watch me, both of us silent in a room that suddenly feels way too small. Waiting to see which one of us cracks first.
Finally, he clears his throat. His voice is softer than I expect. “Are you sure?”
His eyes search mine, and for once, I can’t tell if he’s delighted or terrified. Maybe both.
“I took a test,” I say. “They’re usually pretty accurate. I’m… probably five, maybe six weeks, tops. I’ll make an appointment with my doctor to be sure, but… we should probably keep it quiet until the first trimester’s over.”
I say all of this exactly like I rehearsed it, but the truth is my heart is pounding so loud I can barely think. This is the part where I expect him to nod politely, say Thanks for your service, and send me packing.
Instead, his jaw tightens. His fists clench at his side, like he’s ready to step into the ring and throw hands.
And then his whole face softens.
“This is… amazing news,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then he leans down and kisses me.
I’m shocked. Too shocked to kiss back right away. For once, his lips aren’t rough or demanding. Instead, they’re… light. Cherishing. It’s a kiss that feels like he’s trying to memorize me.
Which, of course, makes my chest ache all over again.
But this time, the ache doesn’t feel so bad.
I kiss him back a little. I can’t help it. He’s Petyr. I’ll always want to kiss him back.
When he pulls away, questions tumble out of me before I can stop them. “What does this mean? For… for us?”
I instantly regret speaking up. My hands fumble for the nearest distraction and land on a loose thread on the duvet cover. I pick at it like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the universe.
“I mean…” I mumble, eyes locked firmly on that stupid thread, “we had a deal, so I understand if… if you want me to move out, or… ”
My throat is dry, my cheeks on fire. I can’t look at him. Because if I look up and see rejection written all over his face, I don’t think I’ll survive it.
Petyr studies me quietly for a moment. “Is that what you want?”
I could lie. I should lie. What Petyr and I have is a ticking time bomb, ready to lay waste to everything around us. No warning and certainly no survivors.
And yet, for once, I don’t want to lie.
“No.” I clear my throat, force myself to slow down. Pick that stupid duvet thread and pull it as taut as my nerves. “I… I don’t want what we have to end.”
There. I said it. Might as well sink into the earth now.
But Petyr doesn’t let me hide. His big hand comes up, cups my cheek, and gently but firmly tilts my face until I’m forced to meet his eyes. The weight of his gaze is almost too much to handle.
“I don’t want it to end, either.”
For a second, I can’t breathe. Did he really just say that?
Did the threat-growling, gun-toting, people-shooting pakhan of the Gubarev Bratva just confess he doesn’t want us to end?
I sit there stunned. Because, against all reason, I think he actually means it.
And the fact that I believe him—that I want to believe him—scares me more than anything else.
His mouth touches mine again, brushing softly, almost reverent. The heaviness in my chest goes away like morning fog when the sun rises.
This time, I don’t hesitate: I kiss him back eagerly. Clutch him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.
His thumb strokes along my jaw, then slides down to my throat. Presses down just enough to make me shudder. My hands fist in his shirt and drag him closer until his chest is flush against mine.
He groans into my mouth, the sound rough and raw. His free hand slips around my waist and pulls me onto his lap. Heat coils low in my stomach as his fingers skate under the hem of my shirt. They graze bare skin, making me shiver all over. Every touch feels like a promise I never thought he’d make.
When we part, another stupid question sneaks out of me. “What if the baby’s a girl?”
“Unlikely.”
Right. His family is a card-carrying member of the Sausage Club. Gubarev sperm is so manly it physically cannot produce double-X chromosomes. Just a fact of life. There’s probably a documentary about it somewhere.
But I press anyway, because my nerves are practically spilling out of me. This doubt has been nagging at me ever since we started, and right now, I don’t want to leave anything unsaid. Don’t want to jump into this man’s arms without laying it all on the table.
“Boys get to be heirs,” I whisper. “Girls… girls get sold off to their fathers’ business associates.”
At first, Petyr says nothing. Then he presses his palm flat against my stomach, firm and protective. His voice drops into a vow. “Not our daughter. Not while I’m alive to stop it.”