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Maybe it’s an outdated cliché, but women really do have a sixth sense for stuff like this.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.
