Page 126 of Cruel Romeo

After the last of the aftershocks has shivered through me, I roll off her. We’re both flat on our backs. Our chests rise and fall hard. Sweat cools on our skin.

I glance over at her. “You’re fucking amazing.”

“Yeah,” she laughs awkwardly. “Also, I’m pregnant.”

51

SIMA

It’s been ten seconds, and Petyr still hasn’t said a word.

Fifteen seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Way too many freaking seconds.

I swallow. Petyr looks me up and down, his expression unreadable. For a small eternity, I feel like a teenage cheerleader who just told the quarterback he’s not gonna be able to fuck his way through college after all, because his bun is in my oven and my dad owns a woodchipper.

Fuck.

Petyr’s mouth opens and closes, a goldfish in Bratva tattoos. Any other time, this would have been the highlight of my day. Funniest thing to happen all week, really.

But this isn’t any other time. I just told my mobster baby daddy I’m pregnant. In my very limited experience as a mob wife, that tends to suck the fun out of things.

Again:Fuck.

Nerves twist my insides like someone wringing out a wet rag. My whole world feels like it’s teetering.

I’m pregnant by a man who hates my family, who has every reason to. My brother, Anatoli, most likely operating under my father’s orders, killed Petyr’s father and put his brother in a coma. That’s not the kind of thing you get over in a few sessions of couple’s therapy.

Now, Petyr’s child is inside me. The heir to the Gubarev empire, the future of New York’s underworld, living rent free in my uterus. The irony is so thick I could spread it on toast.

Here I am, catching actual feelings for the man who forced me into this marriage. A man who made it very clear from day one that I was nothing more than a means to an end. And now that that end is here—now that his heir is officially on board the Shitshow Express—I might as well slap aMission Accomplishedsticker across my forehead and bow out.

The thought makes me want to cry. This could be the last time we ever have sex. The last time he ever sleeps beside me, lets me curl into his side, or brushes his rough hand down my back like I’m precious to him.

And I fucking hate it.

So I sit there and watch him watch me, both of us silent in a room that suddenly feels way too small. Waiting to see which one of us cracks first.

Finally, he clears his throat. His voice is softer than I expect. “Are you sure?”

His eyes search mine, and for once, I can’t tell if he’s delighted or terrified. Maybe both.

“I took a test,” I say. “They’re usually pretty accurate. I’m… probably five, maybe six weeks, tops. I’ll make an appointment with my doctor to be sure, but… we should probably keep it quiet until the first trimester’s over.”

I say all of this exactly like I rehearsed it, but the truth is my heart is pounding so loud I can barely think. This is the part where I expect him to nod politely, sayThanks for your service, and send me packing.

Instead, his jaw tightens. His fists clench at his side, like he’s ready to step into the ring and throw hands.

And then his whole face softens.

“This is… amazing news,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then he leans down and kisses me.

I’m shocked. Too shocked to kiss back right away. For once, his lips aren’t rough or demanding. Instead, they’re… light. Cherishing. It’s a kiss that feels like he’s trying to memorize me.

Which, of course, makes my chest ache all over again.