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 duvetcover. 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. Ishouldlie. 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-shootingpakhanof the Gubarev Bratva just confess he doesn’t wantusto end?
I sit there stunned. Because, against all reason, I think he actually means it.
And the fact that I believe him—that Iwantto 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.”
52
SIMA
There’s something impossibly soft in Petyr’s eyes as he guides me to the shower.
