Chapter 3
Peighton
Russia is colder than anything I’ve ever experienced.
Not just winter cold.
Bone cold.
Soul cold.
The moment Micha ushers me out of the airport, the wind slices through my coat like it’s nothing but tissue paper.
My breath fogs instantly, little clouds floating in front of my face.
California never prepared me for this kind of winter.
Everything looks muted. Gray sky, gray roads, gray-brown earth frozen into brittle slabs.
I’m still not convinced this isn’t a nightmare.
Micha opens the SUV door for me. I slide inside, hands tucked into my sleeves, trying not to shake. Whether from fear or temperature, I’m not sure anymore.
The drive stretches on forever. Forests blur by. Snow covered pines and skeletal birches, their branches reaching like warning fingers. No houses. No towns. Just endless wilderness. Every mile takes me farther from everything I know, and deeper into the grip of a man I’ve never met.
Eventually the trees thin, the road widening into a clearing. And then I see it.
A castle.
A real, towering, stone-and-turret castle rising from the frozen earth like something ripped from a gothic novel. I didn’t know places like this existed outside of museums or tourist traps. This one is not welcoming. It is dark. It is ancient. And it looks like it eats sunlight.
Armed guards stand at every post, rifles visible, attention sharp. They don’t hide. They want to be seen. A reminder that whatever I am now, I’m not free.
And apparently, the government doesn’t care this place exists.
The SUV crunches to a stop in front of steep stone steps. Micha steps out first, then circles to open my door.
I climb out, my tennis shoes slipping slightly on the icy ground. Cold air grips my lungs as I stare upward at the massive entrance door: wooden, iron-reinforced, old enough to have seen wars.
Micha carries my suitcase effortlessly and leads the way. I follow, my legs stiff, ascending the steps one by one. At the top, he pushes open the door, and the castle swallows us.
The entry hall is cavernous. Gray stone walls. High, arched ceilings that trap echoes. Chandeliers that barely light the room with their dim bulbs. The air smells faintly of smoke and metal. No warmth. No color. No hint of softness.
It needs a woman’s touch. Badly. Some flowers. A rug. Maybe lights that don’t look like they’re one flicker from dying.
Micha sets my suitcase beside me and then stands perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back.
So I mimic him.
Because I assume that’s what I’m supposed to do now.
Wait.
My heartbeat ricochets through my ribs.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow and steady, echoing down a dark hallway like the castle itself is holding its breath.
A figure emerges from the shadows.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Jet-black hair slicked back and buzzed on the sides, not a single strand daring to fall out of line.
Skin pale like you’d expect since the sun in Russia is no brighter than moonlight. His eyes, chilling and storm-gray, are unnatural on a mortal man. They feel like they see through me and into my thoughts. It’s unnerving to say the least.
Actually, his face is almost too perfect.
A straight, sharp nose. High cheekbones. A jaw built for violence. His mouth is full but unsmiling, the kind that could kiss a woman senseless or bite her until she bled. His lashes are dark and thick, framing those gray eyes in a way that feels unfair.
Gustav Sokolov.
My future husband.
My lungs seize, because he is... beautiful.
So handsome. In fact, he’s gorgeous in a way that feels wrong. Unholy. Like a statue carved by a bitter god who wanted his creation to be feared more than adored.
He stops in front of me. Silent. Expression unreadable. Staring with an intensity that strips me bare. His gaze drags over my face like he’s cataloging every detail. Not with lust, but with ownership.
A spark flickers in his eyes, subtle, but unmistakable: interest.
Maybe even... hunger? I can’t tell.
Seconds stretch into forever.
Finally, trying not to faint, I step forward and hold out my hand.
“H-hi. I’m Peighton.”
He glances at my hand as if it’s contaminated.
“So American,” he mutters, voice low and accented, every syllable soaked in disdain.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
His gaze sharpens.
Then he moves.
Fast.
His hand clamps around my throat, cold fingers closing like an iron collar.
I gasp, my hands flying to his wrist, nails digging into his skin, desperate for relief. He squeezes, not enough to cut off all air, but enough to remind me exactly who is in control.
My body trembles violently.
And something in him changes. His eyes come alive, like a spark lit something dead behind them.
“Scared, hm?” he says, voice darkly amused.
A low, awful chuckle rumbles from his broad chest.
He releases me, but before I can step back, he holds the back of my head and drags his knuckles down my cheek. Sloppy. Lewd. As if petting a shaggy dog.
Revulsion coils in my gut. He sees it and smiles, wicked. That smile shouldn’t be pretty, but it is. Sinfully so. It’s the kind of smile that could ruin a girl. Or kill her.
He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. Damn. He smells like expensive cologne, winter air and cedar. His cheek radiates heat, shockingly so. I expected a man like him to feel like a corpse.
His breath ghosts across my skin.
“If you keep shaking like that,” he whispers, “you might make me hard.”
My knees nearly buckle, and a choked noise escapes my throat.
He nips my earlobe.
“Does the American princess swallow?”
I gasp and stumble backward so fast I nearly fall.
Gustav straightens, bored again, as if he didn’t just manhandle me like a cat tortures a mouse.
“Dinner in one hour,” he says, turning away, hands in his pockets. “We will go over the rules.”
Rules.
I don’t want to know what those are.
He doesn’t look back when he adds, “Wear something sexy. Tight. So I know what I’m marrying.”
My face flames.
He tosses me a careless, dismissive glance over his shoulder. He smiles that sinister grin. It would be hot as hell if he wasn’t... him.
And for one horrifying heartbeat, I understand why women fall for men like him.
Power is attractive.
Confidence is addictive.
And he has both in terrifying excess.
Despite the disgust twisting my face, he walks back to me, bats my cheek gentle enough not to bruise, but demeaning enough to make tears sting my eyes.
He laughs, loud and crazy.
Reminding me how small I am in his world.
He disappears back into the dark hallway he came from, leaving the echo of my pulse pounding in my ears.
I stand frozen in the gray, hollow castle, struggling to breathe.
I am in the wolf’s den.
And the wolf has already clawed at my throat.