Page 37 of Cruel Romeo

God, I am so screwed.

I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’m supposed to be terrified, scrambling to escape. Climbing up that rusty gate instead of climbing my jailer like a tree.

But I can’t lie to myself about the way my body responded. I’ve never come that hard in my life—never.

And he wanted it, too. I know he did. I felt him, hard against my thigh while his fingers were working inside me. He was into it, I’m sure.

So why didn’t he finish? That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Making a baby? That’s what he said he wanted. Correct me if I’m wrong, but fingering doth not a new human make.

I didn’t need him to put up the performance of a lifetime—though with those abs, I don’t doubt he could have—but he could have at least… I don’t know. Put some filling in the pastry. Don’t leave a girl high and dry, so to speak.

Unless…

Unless he was lying.The thought sticks between my ribs. What if he’s not interested in sleeping with me at all? What if this whole heir thing is just a cover for something else? Something worse?

What if thereisanother woman, someone he actually wants to be with? Someone he went to right after he left me here, dripping and alone, to…?

I shiver and hug myself. That image makes me feel cold all over. He promised, didn’t he? He promised me he wouldn’t be with anyone else while we tried for a baby.

But men lie. You know that better than anyone.

No. I shake my head, shake it off. It doesn’t make any sense, does it? If he’s really trying to get me pregnant, it wouldn’t do to waste the baby-making juice on somebody else. Logically, I know that.

But emotionally, his dramatic exit still stings, and I hate that. Hate that I’m feeling anything about it other than relief.

Maybe there actuallywasa work emergency. Maybe he really did remember something important at the last second. Maybe my pussy is just that good and jogs memories. Not that I’d know, because, as he insisted on making me repeat, I never had a chance to actually use it with someone else. Who knew, right?

Besides, Petyr is still thepakhanof the Gubarev Bratva. The wheeling and dealing of his empire of darkness doesn’t come to a screeching halt just because I came on his fingers. Magic pussy or not.

I huff out a humorless laugh.God, what is my life?

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle towards the bathroom like a rejected one-night stand. Peeling off my clothes feels like the first smart thing I’ve done all day. I let the water run hot and step under the spray, hoping it’ll wash away the confusion, the lingering heat between my legs, the stupid ache I feel in my chest that I’m not ready to name.

Sadly, the water doesn’t have the same memory-altering property as my charmed hoo-ha.

It does help, though. Sort of. A little.

Then I realize I have nothing to sleep in. No clothes. No overnight bag. No toothbrush. A big fat stack of nothing. Just the practical blazer and pantsuit I wore to the wedding and whatever odds and ends are still in my purse. Faaantastic.

I pad over to the dresser and tug open a drawer, pulling out one of Petyr’s T-shirts. Hopefully, he won’t mind that the hookup-slash-wife-slash-baby mommy he left in a puddle of her own tears on his Egyptian cotton sheets stole a little something to keep warm.

I slip it on, and, shocker, it’shuge. It dwarfs me completely, dropping as far as my knees. If I’m not careful, my boobs might peek out the neckline. I fix it up a little higher; the girls have already been exposed to the elements quite enough today, thank you very much.

The motion brings the collar close to my nose. Then, before I can think better of it, I take a long, deep sniff.

The fabric is soft, warm, and smells unmistakably like him. Pine and winter notes, like an early Christmas, and something else I can’t name but already associate with him. I read somewhere once that physical attraction goes through smell, that we’re drawn to the unidentifiable chemical signals that the other person’s immune system complements ours. That it’s strong where we’re weak, weak where we’re strong.

I try not to think about that as I slide into bed. It’s too confusing, too terrifying.

I catch my reflection in the mirror on the way over:Behold, the world’s most frazzled accidental bride!

Collapsing back into the sinfully soft mattress, I pull the covers up to my chest and stare at the ceiling. Sleep feelsimpossible. My brain’s running a full marathon while my body is still recovering from everything that just happened.

I have so much to figure out.

I’ll need to go back to my apartment at some point. There’s my lease to deal with. My job. God, what the hell am I going to say to Jemma?Hey, sorry about ghosting the team, I kind of had a wedding night to attend?I can already see the blinking, horrified face she’ll make as she quietly dials 911 behind her back.

Then there are my community college classes—small business courses I’ve been scraping together tuition for with wedding afterparty overtime. I was finally starting to feel like I had a plan. Like I was building something real. Somethingmine.