Page 130 of Cruel Romeo

His thrusts grow harder. Wetter sounds echo between us. I can feel myself spiraling again fast.

Petyr’s mouth drags back up to mine, hot and claiming. “Louder,” he demands. “Let me hear you fall apart for me.”

“Petyr!” I scream.

My nails scrape down his back, my walls clench hard, and the world narrows to nothing but him. His fingers on my clit, his cock pistoning inside me.

He groans at the way I clamp around him. “That’s it. Squeeze me dry. Fuck, you feel like you were made for me.”

For one delusional second, I agree.

Then another wave of pleasure crashes over me, and my vision goes white.

Petyr fucks me through it. He slams deep once, twice. Then he stills with a low, guttural growl and spills into me as his whole body shakes, in sync with mine.

His hot seed floods me. I think I might go crazy at how good it feels.

When he’s spent, his forehead drops against mine. Both of us are trembling. The shower is still pouring down like it’s trying to wash away what happened between us, this time and all the others.

But nothing could ever erase it.

The proof is already growing inside me.

Afterwards, I let him carry me out and dry me. He tucks me back into bed, then climbs beside me and pulls me against the warm expanse of his chest. Slowly, his breath evens until I can recognize the rhythm of his sleep.

That’s when my brain starts spinning again.

This feels so real.I know I shouldn’t let myself indulge, but after what Petyr said to me, I can’t help it. Because what would it be like, if it were real? Not a deal, not a deadline, justus? If I were actually his wife in every sense, and we were planning our lives together? Planning for our child?

I picture us arguing over baby names. He’d probably want something strong, fierce, something that sounds like it could command a room.

And me? I’d want something softer. Something that feels like a child. A name that’s not an imposition or a destiny. Ideally, a name that doesn’t make kindergarten teachers flinch when they call it out.

I smile stupidly into his chest at the thought. Us bickering over syllables while secretly loving every second of it.

Yeah. I could get used to that.

But you can’t have it,my conscience keeps nagging me.

For once, I find myself replying,What if I could?

Petyr’s vow keeps echoing in my head:“Not our daughter.”As if he’d make the world bend and break to protect her.

The worst part is, I believe him. Against all logic, against everything I know about men like him, I believe him.

I know I should be putting distance between us. Remind myself this isn’t forever. He’s Bratva, and sooner or later, men like him grow bored. And then there are mistresses, side arrangements, trysts and affairs and ugly cheating paraded in front of bitter wives stuck in gilded cages.

I’ve seen it. I’ve lived surrounded by it. That fate is not going to be mine, no matter what. If it came to that, I’d run.

But when I glance at him—the hard lines of his face gone soft with sleep, the way his jaw relaxes only when he’s unconscious—I hate the idea of leaving him. Hate it with a sharpness that makes me curl a hand over my belly.

Our baby.My chest constricts with the contradiction of it all. I know I should run, and yet every inch of me wants to stay.

“Petyr,” I whisper. He doesn’t stir, so he’s definitely asleep.

That’s probably for the best. Because if he answered, I might ask him something I can’t take back. Like if he ever thinks about us the way that I’m starting to. Like if he ever wonders what it would be like if this weren’t pretend.

I should tell him the truth.The thought catches me so off-guard, all sleepiness drains from me.About my family, who I really am.