Page 103 of Cruel Romeo

I’m lying in Petyr’s arms, still trembling. My body feels boneless, heavy, like it’s trying to melt into him.

I should be thinking about boundaries. About escape plans. About reminding myself this is temporary.

Instead, all I can think is,God help me, I don’t ever want to move.

I better get pregnant soon. That thought is as cold as ice water, but it’s true. Because the longer I stay in this bed with him, and the more often we do this, the harder it’ll be to leave.

And Iwillhave to leave. That was always the deal.

Except, right now, with his heartbeat steady under my ear and his arm curled securely around me, the idea of leaving feels less like a plan and more like an amputation.

He shifts out from under me. I prop myself up on one elbow, watching as he pads across the room: naked, unhurried, utterly at ease in his skin.

God, he looks like a statue. A Greek deity chiseled from marble. Is it possible to still be this thirsty after three orgasms in a row? Apparently, my horniness knows no bounds.

He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth. My breath hitches because it’s such a small thing, thoughtful in a way I didn’t expect.

He doesn’t say anything, just gently presses it to me, careful and deliberate. My cheeks heat with an embarrassment I can’t quite name, but I let him help me. Somehow, that quiet intimacy rattles me more than the sex did.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

He just gives me a small nod, disposes of the cloth, then clicks off the lamp. The room plunges into darkness, broken only by the faint light seeping in through the curtains. He slips back into bed, warm and solid, and pulls me against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I close my eyes. But my mind won’t stop spinning.

When he asked me earlier what was wrong, I wasn’t entirely honest. Yes, seeing Dimitri hooked up to machines gutted me, and yes, the thought of losing Petyr terrifies me more than I want to admit.

But what I didn’t say—what I couldn’t say—is how much it bothered me watching Kira with him. The way she reached for him, like she had some claim. The way he kept moving back, which should have reassured me, but instead just lit up the jealous wife alarm bells in my head.

Jealous wife.That’s what I’ve become. Which is ridiculous, because I’m not supposed to be his anything. I’m a stand-in, a vessel, a temporary arrangement with an expiration date. Sowhy does my stomach knot at the thought of someone else touching him?

I tuck my face against his chest, inhaling the clean, masculine scent of him. My lips almost brush his skin, and the words almost spill out—some half-joking, half-serious complaint about him collecting admirers like spare cufflinks.

But I bite them back. Because I can’t let him know I care. I can’t let him know how much space he’s taking up in my head.

Instead, I let him trace lazy patterns down my spine with his fingertip. Every stroke makes my eyelids heavier.

After a while, he says, “You’re quiet. That’s dangerous.”

I huff a little laugh. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the free massage.”

“That’s what you call this?” he teases, dragging his fingertip slowly from the top of my spine to the small of my back. “You’ve got low standards.”

“Free is free. If you want to add hot stones, I won’t complain.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I’ll have them delivered.”

“Perfect. Nothing says romance like mob-funded spa services.”

His finger lingers at the base of my spine, and I feel him exhale. “You always have a smart answer, don’t you?”

“Occupational hazard,” I mutter into his chest. “If I stop, you’ll get suspicious.”

His chest shakes faintly with another laugh, but he doesn’t push. Just keeps tracing those maddening lines over my back,and I just keep pretending they’re not unraveling me one inch at a time.

Slowly, the tiredness of the day pulls me under. But every time I’m about to doze off, my anxiety drags me back to cruel awareness, filling my brain with unwelcome images.

Kira, with her manicured hands on Petyr’s arm.