Page 117 of Cruel Romeo

The memory hovers at the edge of my lips, aching to spill. For the first time, Iwantto share it with him.

But then Maksim’s face flashes in my mind. His hand gripping my arm, his voice calling my name like no time had passed. Panic coils hot and sharp in my stomach.

If I tell Petyr about Lara, about what we used to do together, it would lead too close to the truth I’ve buried. The truth that could unravel everything.

So I swallow the words, forcing them back down where they belong.

Petyr studies me, like he knows I’m holding something back, but doesn’t push. Maybe he sees the shadows under my eyes. Maybe he just knows I need him to let it go.

Without another word, he scrolls until he finds it, presses play, and the screen lights up with that familiar black-and-white. He tucks me tighter under his arm, holding me like he knows I need it.

The overture sweeps through the room, tugging me briefly into another life. For a moment, I’m not Sima the unwilling bride, not the fugitive daughter of a cursed family. I’m just a girl curled on the couch with a boy, laughing until our sides hurt at Gene Wilder’s manic brilliance.

When Igor appears, his hunch swapping sides, Petyr huffs a laugh through his nose. “That’s absurd,” he mutters, but his mouth curves despite himself.

I grin into his chest. “What did you expect? Subtlety?”

Later, when Frau Blücher’s name makes the horses whinny off-screen, he actually chuckles out loud, shaking his head. “Really? That’s the joke?”

“Yes,” I say, smiling in spite of the dread still curling in my stomach. “And it’sperfect.”

By the time Gene Wilder is shouting, “It’s alive!” in over-the-top triumph, Petyr has said, “This is ridiculous” no less than twenty-five times, but I can feel the laughter rumbling in his chest anyway.

I soak in that vibration against my back, low and warm, and my chest aches in a way I can’t name.

I close my eyes, letting that sound wash over me. The heat of his body and the press of his arm make me feel—if only forthis small, stolen stretch of time—like I belong here. As long as I have that, I am safe.

So I cling to that illusion. I hold on as if I can will it to last.

Because deep down, I know it can’t. Sooner or later, this bubble will burst. The truth will find us.

But not now. Not yet. Not here. Not like this.

For tonight, at least, I’m safe.

46

PETYR

Sima drifts off beside me, but I’m wide awake. My arm stays locked around her waist, my hand pressed under her ribs so I can feel every slight rise and fall of her chest.

Normally, she fights sleep and talks until her words blur together, tossing out sarcastic quips even with her eyes half-shut. Tonight? Nothing. Not a word. Just silence.

Something’s wrong.I know it, the way I know when a deal is about to go bad or when a man across the table is lying through his teeth. My instincts don’t lie. And right now, they’re screaming at me, louder with every passing minute I sit here listening to her even breathing while my thoughts churn.

She said she had a migraine, but I’ve seen her push through headaches, exhaustion, everything. Sima isn’t fragile. She doesn’t go quiet like this. She doesn’t retreat into herself and shut me out. The fact that she won’t tell me what’s actually gnawing at her is infuriating. I thought I’d earned at least that much from her by now.

Except that you didn’t. She never tells you the full truth, remember?

I want to silence that ugly voice inside me, but for once, I can’t make the world do my bidding. Because it’s the truth, isn’t it? Sima lies. To me, to her friends, to everyone. She lies about her past, her name, who she is.

Somewhere along the line, I told myself that didn’t matter. That I saw her for who she truly was, even if she didn’t trust me enough to tell me. Thatthatwas enough for the time being.

Now, gritting my teeth in the darkness of our penthouse bedroom, I’m not so sure anymore. Because if she won’t share with me, then I can’t know what’s wrong or who made it that way.

Which means I can’t punish them.

I’m not the overthinking type. If anything, I’m the underthinker of the family. Otets never failed to remark on that. I’m pure instinct in a suit.