Page 90 of Cruel Romeo

“Yeah. Basement gym.” He doesn’t look at me as he stands and grabs a few practical workout clothes. “Don’t wait up.”

He doesn’t look at me as he leaves, either.

I sit there for a moment, stunned, staring at the spot he vacated. My chest aches in a way I’m not ready to identify.

My mind, on the other hand, starts spinning in a very familiar way.

What if he heard something, talked to someone? What if he’s figured it out and this was all a trap?

What if heknows?

But no, that can’t be. He can’t know. If he did, I wouldn’t be here, staring after him. I’d be a bloody splotch on the floorboards. I’d be?—

Dead. I’d be dead.

The longer I sit here, the heavier the dread gets. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he just actually wants to work out. Maybe my flabby bits reminded him of what happens when you skip leg day, and he decided that wasn’t gonna be him.

But I can’t shake the feeling that something just put a distance between us.

And I have no idea how to close it.

34

PETYR

I hit the weights harder than I should.

The iron clangs loud enough to echo throughout the whole basement gym. Sweat stings my eyes; my muscles burn. I savor it all. The sensation rushes through me, drowning out everything else.

That’s exactly what I want: a distraction. If I keep my body busy enough, my head will have no choice but to stop replaying that conversation with Sima.

Since it hasn’t worked yet, I need to train harder.

But keeping my mind occupied proves more difficult than I’d anticipated.

I remember the hesitation in her voice. The fearful way she stumbled over her own words, as if afraid I’d punish her for what she was about to tell me.

“I’m not pregnant. This month, I mean.”

I don’t care that she’s not pregnant yet. Whatever she might’ve thought, I’m not upset, or even disappointed. Not entirely, anyway.

The idea of Sima pregnant with my child… It makes something dark and hot stir inside me. But I’m also well aware that you can’t force these things. Either they happen, or they don’t.

The timing isn’t great, though. The Danilos are circling like vultures, testing the edges of my territory a little more with each passing day. And with my own men making noise about whether I’m strong enough to lead—courtesy of fucking Mikhael—an heir to secure my position would have been good. It would have put a stop to the chatter, showing that I’m capable of upholding my father’s will.

Legacy. Stability. Permanence. Those are the things my Bratva craves right now, and they still aren’t convinced that I can provide them.

I rack the barbell and move to the heavy bag. My fists slam into the leather. Each punch lands with the same rhythm Otets drilled into me when I was barely tall enough to reach it.

“Again.”

“Harder.”

“You’re not here to look pretty. You’re here to fucking win.”

His voice, deep and sharp, still cuts through the years like it’s right in my ear. Back then, I hated the bruises, the way my knuckles bled after each ruthless training session.

Now, I welcome it. Pain and endurance go hand in hand, and I’m not going far without either one of them.