8
SIMA
If Dracula ran a Restoration Hardware, it would probably look like this place.
The walls are paneled in deep, glossy wood, polished until they’re almost mirrors. Heavy antique furniture looms in the foyer: dark oak tables, clawfoot chairs, carved cabinets so big they could double as panic rooms.
The curtains are thick, bloodred velvet. Same goes for the rugs. Same goes for the cushions. It’s the only splash of color anywhere, and it’s not doing the space any favors. It doesn’t brighten things. Just sucks the light in.
Somehow, it makes everything feel heavier.
And deadlier.
Still, the money smell is insane. I try not to gawk like a tourist as I step inside. My soles squeak against the gleaming floor, and the echo of the front door shutting behind me sounds like the gates of hell locking closed.
Petyr doesn’t seem fazed. He tosses his coat onto a side table and gestures down a long, dim hallway. As I look in, I half-expect the Slenderman to stare back.
“Come. I’ll show you around.”
I open my mouth to say something like,No thanks. I’m fine.Or maybe an evergreen,Where’s the bathroom?I’m fairly certain I can figure out where he keeps the sheets, if he gives me a week to explore.
But I don’t get the chance to say anything.
A woman appears at the end of the hall. She’s tall and willowy, with dark hair pulled into a sleek low bun and sharp, high cheekbones.
Not the Slenderman,I note mentally.
She walks up to us. As she gets closer, I realize she doesn’t look much older than me. But her expression is worlds apart: cold, composed, unreadable as a block of ice.
“Petyr.”
“Kira.”
They exchange a nod. No smiles, no warmth, nohow-do-you-do’s. It’s not like I was expecting Mr. Dark-and-Broody to be a kisses-on-both-cheeks type of guy, but this is chilly even by his standards.
“This is Sima,” he says emotionlessly, turning towards me. “My wife.”
Kira’s brow lifts a fraction. “Your wife,” she repeats slowly. “Interesting. I was given to understand you’d be marrying Polina Sidorov.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that buzzes under the skin.
“How’s Dimitri?” Petyr asks, his tone softer now.
Kira’s expression flickers. Not enough for most people to notice, but I see it.
“I thought he looked stronger today,” she replies. Her voice is light, but not airy. Airy floats. Her words drop like lead.
“That’s good.”
I suddenly feel like I’ve walked into the middle of something sacred—or at least something private—and I’m standing on the fault line.
Then Petyr’s phone starts vibrating in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and curses under his breath.
“I need to take this.” He turns to Kira. “Show her around, will you?”
