Page 44 of Cruel Romeo

Aaand he’s already ruined it.

“Wasn’t going to,” I mutter.

Still, the tight ball of uncertainty in my chest loosens a little. Petyr may be an arrogant, manipulative jackass, but maybe he isn’t quite the monster I’d built up in my head.

A middle ground between romance and baby factory treatment is better than nothing, I suppose.

He lingers at the edge of the bed for a moment, watching me with an expression that’s difficult to decipher. It makes heat flare inside me again, in all the wrong places.

Then his gaze flicks to my T-shirt and he smirks. “Helped yourself to my closet, I see.”

“If you don’t want your drawers to be ransacked, then next time, stop by Walmart on your way to kidnapping a bride.” I yank the hem down to mid-thigh. “Feel free to keep your flowers and chocolates, but a pair of underwear would be nice.”

“Anything else?”

“Clothes. Toiletries. Basic human dignity. You know, every newlywed girl’s dream.” I stand, still a little jelly-kneed by Petyr’s—ahem—treatmentearlier. “Come to think of it, don’t bother with Walmart. I’ll just swing by my place and pack a bag.”

“Your place,” he echoes, as if I’ve just said something supremely dumb.

“Yes. My apartment. My humble abode. The place I pay a stranger to let me use for shelter. You’re familiar with the concept of ‘rent,’ right?”

The way he scowls tells me that he may not be, after all. “I’ll send someone,” he says.

I shoot him a look. “Absolutely not. The last thing I need is one of your goons to go rummaging through my panty drawers.”

“You mean, like you did to me.”

“That was— Okay, fine, look, I’ll give back your stupid shirt.” I cross my arms, mirroring his stance. Two can play at thegame of being pissed-off. “As soon as I get my hands on one of mine.”

He holds my stare for a long moment. “Fine,” he bites out eventually. “But I’m taking you. And you’ll make it quick.”

I don’t like the annoyed way he says it, but I should probably grab this chance before it’s gone forever. “Deal,” I say. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal some more of your clothes and shower.”

That brings a hint of smugness back to his face. “Be my guest.”

He throws open his closet door. As I pass him by to ransack his clothes, he leans into my ear and whispers, “By the way, feel free to keep the shirt. It looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

And with that, he’s gone.

18

SIMA

After my shower, I find my way downstairs. Or rather, the smell of butter and something sizzling draw me forward like a cartoon character in a kitchen commercial.

I expect nothing much—as established, Petyr does not feel like a breakfast kind of guy—but then I see it.

A spread. An actual, honest-to-goodness breakfast spread.

Toasted bread. Soft scrambled eggs. A pot of dark coffee steaming beside a matching set of porcelain cups. Bacon, heaps and heaps of bacon, crispy and sweet-smelling on a decorated platter.

And in the middle of it all stands a woman who looks like she would very much like to kill me.

“Good morning, Anya,” Petyr says, walking down the stairs behind me. He’s impeccably washed and dressed, which leaves me to wonder just how many bathrooms are on the top floor alone.

The woman with the dagger glare—Anya, I presume—tips her head respectfully. “Good morning, Mr. Gubarev.” Then she tilts her head to me, with significantly less deference. “Mrs. Gubarev.”

She’s… well. Not ancient, exactly, but she looks like she knows her way around a shuffleboard court. Medium height, gray blouse, black skirt, hair pulled into a punishing bun that looks tight enough to snap bones. Her mouth is pinched into a line that might once have known how to smile but gave it up for Lent sometime in the 1990s. I swear she gives me a full body scan in under one second.