Chapter 52 Sima
SIMA
There’s something impossibly soft in Petyr’s eyes as he guides me to the shower.
He takes my hand tenderly and leads me from the tangled sheets to the bathroom.
As we walk, his fingers trace the heartlines on my palm.
My heart skips, then tumbles. Nerves buzz under my skin.
Because even something as simple as this feels loaded with meaning now, and I don’t feel ready to unpack that.
“Do I stink that bad?” I try to joke, but it comes out weak, brittle. The knot in my throat is obvious.
“Never.” He leans in, a slight curve to his lips. He buries his face into my neck and inhales. “I love the way you smell.”
Love. I shiver. That’s not a word I’ve ever heard Petyr speak. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d speak it lightly. Not in any context.
It’s not a diamond ring, but I guess we’re way past that already.
As I try desperately hard to keep my mind from galloping ahead into a fantasy world where I love your smell means I love you, Petyr turns on the spray.
The room fills with steam in an instant, courtesy of Billionaire’s Row’s luxury pipes.
I never considered that Cinderella might have ever felt out of place in the prince’s tub, but I sure am thinking it now.
Is there protocol for this situation? Do women of high-enough caliber to sleep with men like Petyr shower in particular ways?
What egregious, unsexy faux pas am I currently committing? Am I—
“You’re thinking,” he accuses with a grin.
I blush, caught in the act. “Is that a turnoff?”
“If I wasn’t attracted to your mind, we’d never be here to begin with.” He pulls me beneath the spray. The water spills over us. “But I don’t think you should be doing that right now.”
“Right. Not good for the baby. Eating up all that glucose with my silly little brain.”
He brushes a wet lock behind my ear. “What I’m talking about has nothing to do with the baby.”
I know that. I know it’s not the baby he’s thinking about. I know I’m doing what Jemma calls “deflecting via Tumblr jokes” because I’m terrified my heart won’t be able to take the sheer emotion of this moment if I put my full attention on it.
His lips linger at the corner of mine. I exhale softly. “Right.”
Then I let him kiss me, and all the thoughts melt away.
Petyr starts off slow. His hands linger everywhere as he lathers me with body wash. Reverent, as if cleaning me up is as intimate as having sex with me. And maybe, to him, it is.
He works shampoo into my hair. His fingertips massage slow circles into my scalp until my eyes flutter closed. I lean into his touch without meaning to.
When he rinses me, his palms drift lower. Over my shoulders, across my breasts. He starts thumbing at my nipples, all sore and tender.
I let out a soft moan. “Petyr…”
“I was thinking that they looked bigger.” He flicks them with his tongue, sucks them lightly in his mouth in turns. “Now, I know why.”
I clutch his shoulders for balance, too sensitive to take even this much. “Please,” I whisper, though I’m not sure what I’m even asking for.
But Petyr seems to know, because his hands keep trailing lower. Down my sides, around the swell of my hips. He is so hungry for every inch of me, and every touch reminds me of that.
I shouldn’t be switching off my brain like this. Instead, I should be thinking about the thousands of landmines we’re walking on.
My secrets. My father and brother. A pregnancy that’s bound to make a lot of very dangerous people very upset if they ever found out which two family trees it was merging.
The fact that nothing about us makes sense, because we’re the last two people on Earth who should have ever fallen for each other.
But all I can do is disintegrate under his touch.
He tilts my chin up and kisses me again. This time, it’s hungrier. He pours all his desire into me, like he needs me to feel it. To feel him everywhere.
My knees go weak, but Petyr catches me.
Before I can realize what’s happening, my back hits the wall. The cold tile shocks a gasp from me.
He lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing. I cling to him, wrap my legs tight around his waist, loop my arms over his shoulders.
“Blyat’.” He slips a hand between our bodies. Sinks two fingers into me without encountering a fraction of resistance. “So fucking wet.”
“I’m—ahh—in the… shower…!”
“Not that kind of wet, wise ass.”
As if to prove his point, he starts pumping his fingers in and out of me. My feisty reply dies on my tongue, replaced by moans.
“You feel how ready you are for me? Want me to fill you up, don’t you, lisichka?”
“Yes,” I whisper, shameless. My hands claw at his back. I need him closer.
“Want me to put another baby in you?”
It’s biologically impossible, but I still moan. “Please,” I gasp. “Fuck me, fill me—ahh!”
Petyr’s fingers pull out of me.. I’m about to complain, but then the blunt head of his cock is pushing in, slow and deliberate, and it’s all I can do not to scream. I dig crescents into his back, stretched so full I could cry.
He swallows my moans with another kiss, this one filthy, sloppy.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my lips between licks. “Take me. All of me. You’re mine.”
“Yours,” I answer helplessly. My hips cant against his. “All yours.”
He groans into the crook of my neck, wild and animal. His muscled body presses me into the shower wall, lifts me higher, fucks me deeper.
He pins me with his hips so that his hand can cradle the back of my head, protective even in the heat of it. It keeps me from bumping against the tile with the ferocity of his thrusts.
I want him to go faster. Harder. Want him to fuck me until I can’t walk, can’t think, can’t move.
When I open my eyes, his are already locked on mine, wide and surprised. His pupils are blown. I realize, belatedly, I might have just said all of that out loud.
“Fuck,” he grunts, and ups his pace. “You’re going to be the death of me, lisichka.”
Petyr’s thrusts slow. I moan in protest, but somehow, the shallow rhythm he starts up is almost worse than before. Like this, he’s rubbing against my G-spot every other second. It feels too good for words.
His breath hitches. “Look at you. So fucking perfect.”
He’s drawing this out, the cruel bastard. It feels like torture to wait, but it’s the sweetest kind of agony.
He brushes his thumb along my cheekbone. It’s such a tender gesture, so unlike anything we’ve ever done, that it makes my chest ache harder than the pleasure does.
Then he shifts his hips, angling himself deeper, and I’m lost.
“Say it,” he growls against my mouth His pace turns wild. “Say you’re mine. That no one else will ever touch you.”
My head tilts back against the tiles. “I’m yours,” I chant, over and over, as many times as it takes for him to believe me. “Always. Yours. No one else’s.”
“Good girl.”
That’s all it takes.
I shudder hard. My body clenches around him. It’s too much, too soon, but it also feels like I’ve waited an eternity for this exact moment. I’m coming, and coming, and coming, but somehow, my next orgasm is already tightening inside me.
“That’s it,” Petyr groans. “Come for me. Let me feel you squeeze my cock while I fuck you full.”
It’s not a declaration on one knee or a diamond ring, and Hallmark will never put this moment in the movie trailer, but my chest still swells with something I can’t name. Something I’m afraid to. Because the way he’s holding me speaks louder than a thousand words.
For the first time since that absurd day at the altar, I actually feel like his wife. Not just on paper, but in every way that matters.
And that’s dangerous, because it makes me want to believe him. Believe in this. In us. If only for the space of a heartbeat stretched too far.
His thrusts grow harder. Wetter sounds echo between us. I can feel myself spiraling again fast.
Petyr’s mouth drags back up to mine, hot and claiming. “Louder,” he demands. “Let me hear you fall apart for me.”
“Petyr!” I scream.
My nails scrape down his back, my walls clench hard, and the world narrows to nothing but him. His fingers on my clit, his cock pistoning inside me.
He groans at the way I clamp around him. “That’s it. Squeeze me dry. Fuck, you feel like you were made for me.”
For one delusional second, I agree.
Then another wave of pleasure crashes over me, and my vision goes white.
Petyr fucks me through it. He slams deep once, twice. Then he stills with a low, guttural growl and spills into me as his whole body shakes, in sync with mine.
His hot seed floods me. I think I might go crazy at how good it feels.
When he’s spent, his forehead drops against mine. Both of us are trembling. The shower is still pouring down like it’s trying to wash away what happened between us, this time and all the others.
But nothing could ever erase it.
The proof is already growing inside me.
Afterwards, I let him carry me out and dry me. He tucks me back into bed, then climbs beside me and pulls me against the warm expanse of his chest. Slowly, his breath evens until I can recognize the rhythm of his sleep.
That’s when my brain starts spinning again.
This feels so real. I know I shouldn’t let myself indulge, but after what Petyr said to me, I can’t help it.
Because what would it be like, if it were real?
Not a deal, not a deadline, just us? If I were actually his wife in every sense, and we were planning our lives together? Planning for our child?
I picture us arguing over baby names. He’d probably want something strong, fierce, something that sounds like it could command a room.
And me? I’d want something softer. Something that feels like a child. A name that’s not an imposition or a destiny. Ideally, a name that doesn’t make kindergarten teachers flinch when they call it out.
I smile stupidly into his chest at the thought. Us bickering over syllables while secretly loving every second of it.
Yeah. I could get used to that.
But you can’t have it, my conscience keeps nagging me.
For once, I find myself replying, What if I could?
Petyr’s vow keeps echoing in my head: “Not our daughter.” As if he’d make the world bend and break to protect her.
The worst part is, I believe him. Against all logic, against everything I know about men like him, I believe him.
I know I should be putting distance between us. Remind myself this isn’t forever. He’s Bratva, and sooner or later, men like him grow bored. And then there are mistresses, side arrangements, trysts and affairs and ugly cheating paraded in front of bitter wives stuck in gilded cages.
I’ve seen it. I’ve lived surrounded by it. That fate is not going to be mine, no matter what. If it came to that, I’d run.
But when I glance at him—the hard lines of his face gone soft with sleep, the way his jaw relaxes only when he’s unconscious—I hate the idea of leaving him. Hate it with a sharpness that makes me curl a hand over my belly.
Our baby. My chest constricts with the contradiction of it all. I know I should run, and yet every inch of me wants to stay.
“Petyr,” I whisper. He doesn’t stir, so he’s definitely asleep.
That’s probably for the best. Because if he answered, I might ask him something I can’t take back. Like if he ever thinks about us the way that I’m starting to. Like if he ever wonders what it would be like if this weren’t pretend.
I should tell him the truth. The thought catches me so off-guard, all sleepiness drains from me. About my family, who I really am.
It makes sense. It’s the logical thing to do. My secret is heavier than ever now that Maksim knows I’m alive and somewhere in the city. Just the thought makes my pulse skitter.
Maks isn’t stupid. He must be wondering, pondering, weighing the pros and cons of telling someone. Anatoli, most likely. But as far as I know, all he has is the shock of seeing me breathing when he thought I was long gone.
If he hasn’t already figured out that I’m married to Petyr, he has no reason to assume it.
Unless he saw Luka.
Unless he put the pieces together.
My stomach twists. Still, maybe if I keep a low profile, he’ll assume I disappeared again. That I don’t want to be found. Which, technically, isn’t all that wrong.
I could stay tucked away in Petyr’s family home, surrounded by his walls and guards and ridiculously tall iron gates, a ghost to the outside world.
Maybe that would be enough. I’d do it if it meant I could hold on to my secret a little longer.
But I’d still have to tell him eventually.
Because every hour I don’t tell him, every minute I hide, I risk the truth exploding in a way I won’t be able to control.
And yet, I can’t make myself speak. Not when I’m wrapped in his arms and can almost pretend we’re something real. The tiniest spark of hope is already taking root inside me, fragile and dangerous.
But I know, in my heart, I’m not being realistic. Or fair to Petyr. He deserves the truth, even if it destroys what little we’ve built together. Even if that thought guts me.
If he’s going to find out, better that it comes from me than from someone else’s lips. The whole idea makes my stomach roil, but I force myself to breathe. To commit.
Because, if it were me? I would want to know. I would want to know from him.
I would forgive him for it.
But will he forgive me?
I don’t give myself the chance to agonize over it a moment longer. Worse, to back out emotionally.
There’s a baby now. This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about “us”—an “us” bigger than just two.
Tomorrow, I tell myself as I roll over in Petyr’s arms. Before he leaves for Bratva business in the night, I’ll tell him. No more stalling, no more lies. Just the truth.
It’s the least he deserves. The least I can give him.
And, perhaps, the only chance I have to keep even a sliver of what we have intact.