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“I should be using a condom at the very least. I’ve made things bad enough as it is. It would be terrible if I got you pregnant right now. I just find you irresistible, you know? But I’ll do better,” I promise.
Silvia doesn’t say anything. Instead, she buries her face in my chest, snuggling closer to me, and the gesture spreads a warm, intense happiness tingling through my body. Tightening my arms around her, I press my lips to the top of her head and inhale deeply.
This might just be the best moment of my life.
33
SILVIA
Sitting in front of my vanity mirror, I take a deep, steadying breath.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell Pyotr about the baby.
Not once he talked about how terrible it would be if he got me pregnant now–right after he poured his heart out to me and told me something it clearly pained him to admit. I could see the weight lift from him once he got it all out. And knowing how much guilt he carried over what he’d done had affected me almost as much as his attempt to make amends.
The way he’d knelt before me in supplication as he put our fate in my hands. It might be the single most romantic thing I’ve ever seen. And I have three love-drunk brothers who are completely taken with their women and have a bottomless pocketbook at their disposal.
How could I not forgive him after that?And then, when I did, we had what I’m pretty sure was the best sex of my life. Not that I have many experiences to compare to. But when Pyotr had me pressed up against the wall of his bedroom, I orgasmed so powerfully that, for a moment, I saw the world in technicolor.
Fighting to keep my nerves under control, I drag my brush through my hair, forcing the nonexistent tangles from it for the hundredth time. It’s been a week more of enduring the burden of my secret. Because I couldn’t bring myself to tell him on our date last week, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to drop that bomb on Pyotr in school.
Now, finally, it’s the weekend again. Time for our date night. And this time, Iwilltell him. I have to.
I take extra care with my appearance, adding a bit of eyeliner and lipstick to my typical mascara–partly because I hope to look a bit closer to irresistible today and partly to give my hands something to do while I wait.
Glancing at the clock, I check the time again. Ten after six, and still no sound of the doorbell. Pyotr’s running late, and a glimmer of doubt wheedles its way into my chest.He’s coming,I reassure myself.Probably just got stuck in traffic.
Maintaining my determination to tell Pyotr is taking an immense amount of energy, and every minute that ticks by makes that conviction harder to sustain. Because I can think of a hundred reasons why I might want to put it off longer.
No, I need to tell him. My conundrum is not going to resolve itself. And he has a right to know. I just really, really don’t want him to be angry.
At six fifteen, I leave my bedroom and head down the stairs to find Alfie waiting in the foyer. He’s dressed in his typical sharp, dark Italian suit and pressed white shirt.
“Anything?” I ask our trusty butler.
He shakes his head, his eyes shifting to the front door and peering through the pane of glass on one side.
Pyotr’s never been this late before. And while I know things do come up, I can’t stop the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.What if he’s pulling away again?It’s a pattern I’ve almost come to rely on with him. As soon as things get good between us, when I finally think we’ve gotten past all that and we’ve become close, he withdraws.
As though intimacy is what drives him away.
My heart aches at the possibility that it’s true.Could it be my luck that I’ve fallen for someone who won’t ever be able to feel safe with me?I don’t know if I can do a lifetime of waking up wondering whether he’s going to want me from one day to the next. I care for Pyotr. Deeply. But I’m not sure my confidence can take that kind of strain. Let alone my ego.
“I think I’ll go work on my final project while I wait,” I tell Alfie. “Come get me if I don’t hear the doorbell?”
“Yes, miss,” he agrees, in his crisp, formal tone as he straightens before me. But I see the sympathy in his eyes.
God, am I really so pathetic that even Alfie can read my disappointment? Over being stood up by the man in my arranged marriage, no less?
I need to get a grip.
When I reach my room, I close the door behind me with a soft click. Then I pull my phone from my purse. I tap the darkened screen several times, debating whether I should give it a few more minutes.
But I still haven’t heard from Pyotr. No text telling me he’s going to be late. Nothing. And that’s unusual, even in times when he’s withdrawn. When he shuts down, Pyotr still maintains a polite facade. And he’s never once kept me waiting.
Unlocking my phone, I pull up my recent contacts and call Anya.
“Hey, Silvi,” she says warmly, answering after several rings.
