Chapter 7
Gustav
The guards drag Peighton into the sunroom at exactly eight in the morning, just as I instructed. She fights them the entire way. She is small enough that it should be nothing, yet her fury fills the corridor long before her body reaches the door.
When they shove her inside, she is breathless, wild-eyed, and shaking with rage.
She looks different in the morning light. Her cheeks flushed darker. Her hair pulled into a messy knot that makes the slope of her neck more chokeable. Her brown eyes flash with heat and pain, and satisfaction fills my chest.
The dark voice hums.
She hates you. Good. Hate is respect for your power.
But the way she looks at me is not only hate. It is defiance. Defying her boss or husband is forbidden in this world. Such fire. Life. I should extinguish it. Instead, I watch it burn with curiosity as I murmur, “Hello, devushka.”
She snaps, “Do you attack all your house guests and jam needles in them?”
“Only you,” I answer. “Sit.”
She glares as if I am the source of every misfortune in her life, which is accurate.
I recline at the glass table, barefoot, sweatpants, shirtless, drinking coffee and reading morning intelligence.
The winter light fills the room and turns everything pale gold.
It softens nothing about her. Her fear still clings to her skin like frost.
“I cannot find my phone,” she says. “Where is it?”
“I took it last night,” I reply. “You will get it back when you earn trust.”
She gasps on a laugh. “Earn it!”
“My mother says I should be nice to you,” I reply. “So I am.”
She squints at me. “Your mother? Can’t wait to meet the poor woman who spawned you.”
“She’ll be at the wedding if my father allows it.”
“Huh? Isn’t your father dead and that’s why you’re the boss?”
I shrug, disinterested.
A long silence stretches. I enjoy my coffee and say nothing. Let her stew.
Eventually, she shifts her weight and tries a softer tone.
“Gustav. What do you want in a bride, because I am not it.”
“Mr. Sokolov,” I correct.
She drags a hand down her face. “Fine. Mr. Sokolov. What are you looking for? Why me?”
I set my phone down and study her. I suspect she expects a romantic confession or a sadistic taunt.
“I want someone who will not betray me,” I start. “Someone who can serve me. Someone who has no alliances that threaten mine. Someone whose value lies only in me.”
Her shoulders drop in disappointment. “So you do want a servant.”
“Exactly.”
Her mouth opens. Then closes.
Perfect.
“And what do you want in a husband?” I ask, “besides a fantasy man.”
She frowns. “Someone kind. Who lets me make decisions. Who courts me. A gentleman.”
“Good. That’s me,” I say. “And you are what I want. Perfect match.”
She stares, speechless.
Her gaze drops.
Hm. She’s looking at my body. I let her.
Then, I see the exact moment she notices more than my abs. Her gaze flicks to the left. Toward the burn scars that stretch from my back, half hidden in the morning light. Old, ugly damage.
She stares at the scars like they are a secret she wants to learn. My skin prickles under her gaze. Her eyes soften for half a second, and something inside me knots in response.
She cares.
The voice snaps.
Do not let her see you. Push her. Hurt her. Control her.
I remain seated, forcing my breathing steady. Her gaze crawls over each mark peeking at the edges of my side. She leans closer, as if she wants to touch them. The idea sends a unsettling chill through my body that causes me to fidget, just for a moment.
Her voice softens without meaning to.
“What... what happened to your back?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” I dismiss, not moving from my chair.
“But it looks bad—”
“I said it does not concern you.”
She swallows and tries to look away, but her gaze jerks lower, against her will... to my loose fitting gray sweatpants. She stares longer than she intends. Embarrassment flushes across her cheeks. She tries to recover, but I saw it.
Like it.
I reach across the table, catching her wrist with minimal effort. She gasps as I press her palm against my hard stomach. Her hand is small against my body, warm, soft in a way that makes my jaw tighten.
The darkest whisper sounds.
Take her. Bend her over the table. Tear her virgin hole. She’s yours to use.
My eye twitches and pulse jumps, but I keep my expression flat.
Maybe if the voice asked nicely.
Nobody tells me what to do.
Well, sometimes.
She is... pretty. Hair messy. Cute curiosity. The way her pants stretch around her hips so tightly.
I snarl at myself.
Since when does taking a woman interest me. Much like last night when my cock awoke from a deep sleep. Sure, whores once sucked me off on occasion, but not for years. My interests lie elsewhere more each day.
Yet, she has clearly lit a match I need to snuff.
I grip her wrist tighter and inch her hand slightly lower.
I stay still as I watch her eyes widen, watch confusion ripple across her face, watch fear gleam back at me. I hold her hand firmly.
“Staring is rude,” I say. “Touching is better if you are curious.”
She shakes her head, frantic.
“I’ll move your hand lower so you can feel your first cock?”
She yanks back with such force she knocks her chair off balance. The terror that flashes across her face is raw. Honest.
Delicious.
But surprisingly, it’s disappointing, too.
Most virgins have some curiosity about men. Perhaps she has none.
“I have zero sexual desire for you,” she snaps, voice cracking. “Especially after you microchipped me like a dog.”
“An early wedding present,” I say, calm. “But I will give you space today. You seem... hormonal.”
She gives me a look that says she knows I’m fucking with her. She doesn’t bite back. Smart girl. Instead, she storms out, wrapping her jacket tight around her body. I let her go.
Minutes later, the front door shuts, drawing my attention. I rise and jog upstairs.
Outside of the window overlooking the grounds, she moves with determination across the frosted ground. She’s an irritation and a fascination. She looks small against the endless white. The feminine curve of her spine. The sway of her hips under the jacket. The white puff of her breath.
Father hisses against my ear.
Don’t you see? She will run. She will betray you. She will destroy everything. Chain her.
I dig my fingers into my palms.
Leave me... The idea sets my blood on fire.
Micha steps into place beside her in the icy garden, calm as always.
They argue. He upsets her more. Micha doesn’t waver. He has the same unwavering loyalty he has shown me since he was seventeen.
Eventually, he steps away and allows her to walk alone, or so she thinks. She moves through the dead plants quickly. She studies every corner. Every pathway. Every door.
Yes. She is trying to escape.
She spots the side garage. Her pace quickens, as if she already knows the quickest route.
Clever, but predictable.
Just then, a maid hurries to my side, holding a small object and sheets. The white linens have red droplets.
The woman cries, “Sir! Look.”
I grunt. She dug out her microchip. Didn’t expect that. I turn to the two bodyguards near me. “Teach her what happens when she tries to run.”
They nod and sprint off.
I watch her for a few moments longer, assessing how far she gets and whether the fear will break her or strengthen her resolve. Then something glints at the edge of the long drive, far in the distance. A polished hood ornament. A snowfall of black armor steel.
A Rolls Royce.
Not mine. Not an ally.
My muscles stiffen. Ice crawls beneath my skin.
The emblem is familiar.
The Morozov Bratva.
A rival faction old and angry enough to enter my land without asking.
I step back and signal to every guard nearby. “Incoming. Alert the grounds. The Morozovs are here.”
Below, the guards reach Peighton, bursting from the garage entrance with guns aimed. She screams in surprise and juts her hands in the air like two white flags. She wobbles on uneven ground and her shoes slide, causing her to fall on her ass.
I laugh at her stupid reaction. Oh, she’ll be fun to toy with.
The guards approach, but—
They fall on their asses too, slipping on snow-covered ice.
“What in the hell is this circus nonsense?” I growl, disgusted.
She rises, the three of them looking like newborn deer on ice. She manages to find a safe path and lunges toward the forest. She doesn’t look back and disappears into the line of thick pines.
Shit.
For the first time since Peighton arrived in my home, a new instinct rises in me.
It is primal and urgent.
I’m torn in three ways: chase after her, protect my empire from intruders, or listen to the darkness.
Torture. Kill. Everyone.
I move away from the window calmly, but inside, the chaos of my mind is in full battle.