Chapter 5
Peighton
For a long moment, he just stares at me across the table, those wolf eyes fixed.
Then Gustav rises.
Smoothly.
Like a dark apparition rising from the depths of hell.
He steps around his chair, shoes echoing on the stone floor, and swaggers toward me.
The way he moves is certain yet casual. When he stops beside my plate, he doesn’t bother lowering himself to my level.
Instead, he sits on the edge of the table itself, towering above me, knees spread, casting me in his shadow.
He cocks his head, like I am a peculiar thing to behold.
I grip the edge of my seat, heart hammering so loud it’s deafening.
He places his finger just under my bra strap.
I freeze.
Absolutely still.
His knuckle skims the delicate skin of my shoulder as he follows the line of the strap downward… downward… toward the slope of my chest, until he reaches the swell of soft skin.
He says my name.
“Peighton.”
Creepier.
“Peighton.”
And once more, slower, darker. Taunting:
“Peighton.”
Each repetition makes my lungs shrink a little more.
“You saved yourself for me?” he murmurs.
“I saved myself for my soulmate,” I manage through a shaky breath. I shouldn’t have said that, or what’s next because his hands might find my neck again, but the fight in me persists.
“My true soulmate. Too bad you don’t have a soul. Or a pulse.”
He chuckles under his breath, so absentmindedly it’s as if my insult barely registers.
Because his hand is far more interested.
His finger slips under the top of my bra. Just enough for his knuckle to graze the underside of my breast. Then up, brushing the tip of my nipple.
My breath stutters and an intense panic grips my body, not the sharp, icy fear he stirs inside me, but something far more humiliating. Because even though I don’t want him touching me, my body doesn’t seem to understand the difference.
In fact, I hate that my pulse jumps beneath his knuckle. I hate that he probably feels it. I hate the dark, knowing look he’s giving me, like he expected me to respond just as I am.
I look away, cheeks burning, wishing I were made of stone instead of nerves and goosebumps.
But Gustav doesn’t look away. He watches me react. He watches everything.
“Tell me,” he says softly. “Has any man touched you here?”
His finger sweeps the slightest bit, and despite my mind’s cries, my body betrays me as my nipple grows firm and taut. His touch is so faint I shouldn’t feel it.
But I do.
“No,” I whisper. “No human has touched me there.”
His eyes sharpen. “Human?”
“Only a Russian demon lacking manners.”
He smiles, pleased rather than insulted.
A real smile, with raw, feral delight at being compared to something infernal.
Then he releases the elastic bra strap with a harsh snap.
I flinch so hard my chair creaks.
“Then,” he says with deep, theatrical mourning, “I must apologize.”
He presses a hand to his heart, expression dripping with tragic sorrow.
“Nobody else can fuck you now. Not even for my entertainment.”
My jaw drops.
He looks at the guards. “You hear that? Tis a shame to deprive you of taking turns for my amusement, but keep your cocks in your pants.”
One guard actually snickers. The other looks away, ashamed or afraid. I can’t tell which, but either way, bile rises in my throat.
What hell is this?
He tsk-tsks me, shaking his head as if I caused a tragedy.
“You shouldn’t have told me you were a virgin,” he says. “Now I want to play with you, and I don’t play nice.”
I give him a dead look.
He beams, thrilled by my misery.
But suddenly, he flinches. Like someone struck his cheek.
Odd.
Then Gustav slips off the table and strolls back to his seat. When he sits, he drops with dramatic flair, and crosses his legs lazily, as if we aren’t discussing my entire sexual autonomy.
“Rule three,” he says, picking up his fork, “you will pleasure me.”
My voice cracks. “Sexually?”
“Da. Suck my cock. Make me cum. You know, be useful.”
“I use teeth,” I warn flatly, so fast I impress myself. Although, I haven’t so much as seen a dick in person.
Without missing a beat, he replies, “Good. I like pain.”
I groan in utter exhaustion.
He points his fork at me, wrist loose. “But you must do it willingly.”
“Then you won’t get anything,” I huff. “Because I will never do anything willingly with you.”
His head snaps to the wall, his voice freaking scary.
“Of course I see she needs St. Andrews! What? I am being nice! Too nice.” He scoffs and smacks the tabletop. “Yes, da. Very well.”
My eyes bulge, unblinking. I side-eye the nearest guard who watches Gustav, equally stiff as a board as I am.
I swallow hard when Gustav redirects his gaze to me.
“I’m a reasonable man. I’ll compromise on the rule. You can pleasure me willingly or unwillingly.”
I stammer, but no words form. Everything I say makes things worse. Be silent, Peighton. I need time to plan.
A cough. A chain rattles. I don’t dare look.
His gaze flicks to the man on the cross.
“Quiet. I’m eating,” he says simply.
My stomach twists.
“You okay, my pathetic servant?” he adds.
My lip quivers, but the truth bursts free like I have a death wish:
“Ugh! I just wanted a loving husband. A real love,” I say, rubbing my face. “All I ever wanted.”
Because I didn’t grow up dreaming of diamonds or dynasties or being owned like a bargaining chip. I dreamed of someone holding my face gently, brushing their thumb across my cheek, telling me they picked me because they wanted me, and not because a council decreed it.
I wanted first dates, first kisses, first times that meant something. Not a forced marriage to a man who looks at me like a doe he can hunt and kill.
Maybe wanting love makes me stupid, but wanting nothing at all would leave me dead inside.
He laughs harshly at my silly dream. “Dumb American woman.”
Then he surprises me.
“Rule four,” he announces louder. “I will protect you from all harm no matter what. Always.”
My head snaps up. The words hit me harder than I expect... because they’re deeply confusing.
For a second, I swear he means it. Not out of honor or out of duty, but something darker and needier. Like the idea of someone else hurting me offends him personally. Like my safety belongs to him as much as my looming title as his wife.
My breath stutters. I pretend I don’t care. But I do.
“Oh?”
He nods once. “Is that not what real love looks like to you? A husband that would break knees and skewer hearts if they dare make what’s mine hurt?”
His expression shifts just a hair, although the idea of giving protection seems unfamiliar to him. As if it tastes strange on his tongue.
“I… I guess,” I breathe.
“Good.”
A strange warmth flickers in my chest.
Then—
“Final rule,” he says, voice dropping dangerously. “Devushka… you will never lie to me.”
“I... I won’t.”
“If you do,” he continues coolly, “I will not punish you.”
I exhale.
He finishes:
“I will kill you.”
The relief dissolves instantly.
I can only blink.
Silence hangs in the air. I stab my food and chew without tasting it, throat too tight to even swallow. When I can no longer pretend to eat, I rise slowly from my chair.
“I’m going to my bedroom.”
Gustav glances up lazily. “Would you like to sleep in my bed?”
My heart slams into my ribs.
“Uh, no,” I whisper.
He smiles. “Me neither. We’re already compatible.”
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t… want me?
I don’t know why, but a tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. This is just... a lot to take in.
I swipe at it hard and turn to leave.
“Stop,” he commands.
I obey.
His head tilts, staring at my face.
Surprised.
Maybe stunned.
I don’t want him to see how overwhelmed I am, how small I feel in this castle of shadows, rules, and cold stone.
He steps forward until he towers in front of me again. His hand lifts and his fingers pinch my chin.
“Look at me.”
I do, though I don’t have a choice.
And then—
Gustav leans down.
His tongue slips out, warm and wet, licking a rouge tear from my cheek. It’s invasive and incredibly sensual, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
His eyes close for half a second, just half a heartbeat, as if tasting me does something to him he didn’t expect. His eyes search mine. His lashes are so long and black, accentuating those light gray, hypnotic eyes. His pupils dilate, a hawk fixing on his prey.
He snaps out of the trance and straightens, his expression darker and greedier.
“One day,” he murmurs, voice deep and haunting, “you will crave to sleep in my bed.”
He brings his mouth close to mine. So close, I feel his breath gently warm my skin.
“And you better hope,” he whispers, “I let you.”