Chapter 4
Peighton
The dining room is creepy.
A long gothic hall stretches out before me. Vaulted stone ceiling, flickering candles dripping wax down iron sconces, shadows clinging to every corner like they’re hiding the dead. The table itself is absurdly long, polished dark wood that gleams even in the dim light.
Gustav sits at one end. I’m expected at the other based on the only open chair.
The distance between us feels... intentional. Perhaps a warning. A throne room set for a tyrant and the girl he intends to scare.
He’s already eating.
Rude.
His attention is fixed on his phone, its glow highlighting his flawless features. He holds it loose in his hand, thumb idly scrolling. Completely relaxed.
I tug both jackets tighter around me as I approach. Underneath is a hoodie over a sweater. Baggy sweatpants. Two pairs. No curves or skin showing.
The opposite of what he demanded, and that makes me silently proud of myself.
As I walk past him, I feel his attention snap upward.
He looks from under his brow. No tilt of the head. No real movement. Just his eyes rising, electric and sharp as a blade.
I try not to look too long, but my traitorous head remains turned over my shoulder.
He smirks.
That wicked, knowing smirk.
A sound rumbles in his chest, half chuckle, half growl.
“Moy drozhashchiy sluga,” he murmurs.
The foreign words slither over my skin.
I blink. “What does that mean?”
His grin widens, slow and sinful.
“A trembling thrall,” he answers casually. “My pathetic little servant.”
My jaw drops. “Are you insane? That’s — wow. Then you’re... Satan.”
He gasps dramatically, hand to his chest, as if my insult pierced him.
Then he bows his head slightly. “Thank you.”
A tiny glint lights his eyes, like he genuinely enjoys being called that. The oddness is almost... charismatic.
Before I can come up with a comeback, a harsh cough cracks through the silence.
My gaze snaps toward the side wall—
And my blood runs cold.
A man my age with blond hair and flushed cheeks is chained to a wooden cross, wrists shackled high, ankles bound. He looks half-alive. Eyes swollen. Lip split. He breathes in shallow, pained pulls.
It’s torture.
Real torture.
Ten feet from our dinner table.
I stagger back. “Who... who is that?”
Gustav doesn’t even glance at him.
“Life number two,” he grumbles, picking at his meal. “Son of a Nordic mafia boss who crossed my father. My old man’s dead now. I will correct that sin.”
My stomach churns. “Are you going to kill him?”
“Da.”
“You shouldn’t,” I blurt. “It’ll look bad, hurting another boss’ son. It could start a war.”
Everything in him changes.
His chin lifts, slowly. His gray eyes go dark.
“You question me?” he asks, voice low with warning.
My mouth dries. “I... I didn’t mean—”
A chair scrapes violently, but he doesn’t stand.
“Rule one,” he says, voice deceptively soft, “is obedience. You obey me unconditionally.”
I fold my arms, trying to look firm. And I make the mistake of rolling my eyes. Barely.
But he sees it.
He reclines into a lazy posture, wrist limp on the armrest. His tone drops to something bored, amused, maybe even cruel. He murmurs in Russian, flicking two fingers in my direction.
Two guards appear instantly at my sides.
Before I can react, they rip me from my chair.
“What! Stop! No—!”
Powerful hands tear at my clothes. Fabric rips. Fingernails scratch my skin.
I gasp, scream, claw at them, but they don’t stop until everything is gone except my bra and underwear.
I stand there. Shaking, exposed, arms wrapped over my chest, thighs clamped together, goosebumps all over, and breath hitching.
Absolutely stunned and humiliated.
Gustav’s eyes drag over me slowly, head to toe, toe to head.
For one heartbeat, something cracks. His jaw flexes. His eyelids flicker. A muscle pulls tight beneath his cheekbone.
He swallows before he manages to tear his gaze away.
Maybe he wasn’t expecting to like what I hid, and that truth must’ve pissed him off. Same for me. I don’t want quiet interest. I want to be madly desired by the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with.
And based on his half-lidded eyes, his interest has already fizzled.
He lifts his wineglass in a mock toast.
“You broke the first rule. You didn’t obey me,” he says evenly. “Always dress appropriately. Now sit.”
I don’t move.
“I said sit,” he repeats, voice hardening, “before something worse happens.”
I nearly collapse into the chair. The cold stone beneath my bare feet makes my toes ache, and tears pool in my eyes. I sniffle them back.
“Rule two,” he continues, as if my dignity wasn’t just ripped off along with my clothing, “is loyalty. I am a traditional man.”
His voice wraps around that word, traditional.
As if it is sacred.
It shouldn’t make something in me tighten. Yet some curious part of me wants to understand why a man like him needs a woman to know that... or why he wants to carve rules into my skin so I don’t forget.
However, I shove the thought away immediately. That’s a fairytale: a man wanting us to ourselves.
Loyalty, what a joke.
Mafia men are notoriously unfaithful. Besides, I am not here to psychoanalyze the monster I’m supposed to marry. I need to find a way out of this mess. Until then, I must tread softer now that it’s clear he is unreasonable.
I swallow and reply with a warm smile.
“I’m loyal. And very traditional.”
He grunts something in Russian. I don’t understand it, but his tone is unnerving and I look at the guards, hoping he didn’t issue another command.
They remain still.
Just then, the chained man coughs again. A wet, painful sound.
My head jerks toward him—
I gawk. Tremble. I don’t think I’d ever get used to that sight.
A violent thud slams through the room. Gustav has stabbed his knife into the table’s ancient wood.
“Don’t look at him.”
I jump. “I, I wasn’t—”
His eyes narrow. “Would you like him to fuck you, devushka?”
My breath stops.
“N-no!” I yip, horrified.
The air crackles with tension. He leans back, lips curling.
“I’ll watch,” he says, “as my dinner entertainment.”
My stomach churns and I gag. “I’m not like that. I’m for one man only.”
He laughs. It’s a deep, delighted sound that jars me.
“Oh? My pathetic servant is a Saint?”
“I’m telling the truth,” I insist, voice cracking. “I’m not experienced! I haven’t—”
I stop short and freeze. I just outed myself.
His silverware drops with a heavy clink, and his eyes narrow slowly, like a predator spotting prey.
Those storm-gray eyes sear into mine, hungry and wild.
For a moment, his tongue presses briefly against his cheek, like he’s skeptical.
His fingers curl subtly on the table, knuckles white, holding himself back as he muses.
“Peighton,” he murmurs, voice menacing — much too full of delight and boyish wonder. “What did you say?”
I swallow, pulse throbbing in my neck.
Damn it. He knows, and I have no idea if that’s good. But the look in his eyes tells me:
I didn’t just say the wrong thing.
I said the worst thing imaginable.