Chapter 10
Peighton
The simple blue dress lies at the bottom of my suitcase, wrinkled and unimpressive.
I never meant to wear it on my wedding day. It was supposed to be a backup, something plain and forgettable for travel, not the dress I’d be bound in when I said vows to a man I’ve never met.
But with the wedding moved up and no time to have anything else brought in, I’m out of choices. I hold the dress up to the mirror. It sways slightly in the draft, looking more like something worn to a courthouse than the altar of a Russian dynasty.
A sharp sound snaps through the silence.
It’s faint, like a door closing somewhere deep inside the stone belly of the castle.
I tense, listening.
Another sound follows, a muted thump, as if someone dropped something heavy on wood. I step into the hallway, drawn by instinct more than sense. The corridor stretches out in both directions, quiet and dim.
Another sound comes from the far end, past the servant stairwell, near a massive wooden door I’ve never noticed before. The thing looks older than the rest of the castle, its planks thick, blackened, and bolted with iron. Dust coats the handle as though untouched for decades.
Still, something inside me whispers to check.
I try the handle. Locked.
I tug harder. It doesn’t budge.
I turn back, blaming my nerves. A sudden whine of iron hinges cuts through the quiet. I spin around.
The heavy door shifts, drifting open as if pushed from the other side.
A chill jolts up my spine.
I should leave it alone. I should go back to my room and wrestle myself into the blue dress and stop acting like the paranoid bride of a madman. But curiosity hooks me, tugging me inside.
A circular stone stairwell spirals up into darkness. My voice feels trapped in my throat as I take the first step. Each step kicks up a puff of dust. The air smells like cold stone.
I find a switch on the wall and flip it. The lights flicker violently, buzzing in protest. Half of them burn out immediately, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of yellowish glow.
The higher I climb, the colder it gets.
At the top, I enter a bedroom frozen in time. Tall windows covered in grime. Heavy velvet curtains eaten by moths. A once grand four-poster bed draped in faded brocade.
The room feels like a dream that was forgotten.
I open the wardrobe, expecting dust and decay. Instead, something pristine waits inside. Among many dresses, is a vintage gown, cream silk with delicate embroidery, untouched by age. My breath catches. It is beautiful. Too beautiful. The exact kind of dress a bride would pray for.
I lift it carefully, the fabric soft and cool in my hands.
On the dresser, a jewelry box sits half-open, the velvet inside lined with blood-red rubies. They glitter even in the weak light. As though they’ve been waiting.
I lift a ruby necklace, its weight heavy and cold against my palm.
That’s when I see it.
A photograph tucked behind a cracked silver frame. A woman with kind eyes and black hair, holding a baby swaddled. The shape of the baby’s face looks familiar enough that my heart slows.
It must be Gustav.
And his mother?
I look around the room again. The dress waiting. The jewels. The portrait. As if the woman in the picture left all of this for me.
It’s ridiculous, but the words slip out anyway, quiet as breath.
“Do you want me to marry your son?”
Thud!
My gaze snaps to the window, and I jump back.
Black feathers float in the air. The glass has a giant smudge where a bird just flew into the glass.
I gasp and bolt.
Dress clutched to my chest, rubies rattling in my grip, I rush down the spiral steps, nearly tripping as the lights flicker out one by one behind me, swallowing the tower in darkness.
In my bedroom, I slip on the dress with trembling hands.
The lace hugs my curves. The neckline dips modestly but frames my collarbones. My dark hair is dry now, soft from brushing, falling down my back in loose waves. I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror.
I hope Gustav doesn’t hate it. I hope he sees me and doesn’t sigh or sneer. It’s ridiculous to care, but some part of me wants to impress him. Maybe because he risked his life for me. No one else ever has.
I’m still processing everything when a woman steps forward from near the doorway, moving with grace.
She is striking in a sharp, understated way. Blond hair pulled back into a sleek knot. Blue eyes that catch everything. Fair skin, plum lipstick, and a small chin that makes her look kinder than her expression suggests. She wears a fitted red coat and stands with confidence.
She stops in front of me.
“You must be Peighton,” she says.
Her accent is smoother than the others, her English crisp. A welcome relief.
“Yes,” I answer. “That’s me.”
She offers a hand. “I’m Keira. My husband is Petyr Koz, Gustav’s second-in-command. I’m here to help you with the ceremony. New wives usually need guidance, especially with your... situation.”
There’s a lot she’s not saying, but I appreciate the attempt at tact.
She glances at the doorways and asks, “Will your parents be arriving soon? It’s customary for at least one parent to be at the wedding.”
“Um... no.” I shift awkwardly. “There isn’t enough time for my dad to get here. I wish he could walk me down the aisle.”
She nods politely, then asks, “And your mother?”
I take a slow breath, not expecting this question so early into meeting a stranger. “My mom is in the witness protection program... you know.”
Keira’s lips part slightly. “Witness protection?”
She doesn’t get it.
“In America,” I clarify, “it means the government is keeping her safe, but it’s really my dad’s slang for she’s dead. You don’t leave the mob. Or him. She was unfaithful.”
Keira’s gaze softens. “That’s... not good.”
I hug myself. “I was sixteen,” I add quietly. “The day he told me she left us. I never spoke to her again. Sometimes I feel like she’s alive. But probably not.”
Keira absorbs this carefully. Her sympathy feels real, not forced or condescending.
But then her face tightens in a very different way.
“Peighton,” she says softly, “you must never tell anyone about that.”
My stomach dips. “About what?”
“Your mother’s infidelity.” Keira glances down the hallway, ensuring no one is nearby.
“If Gustav ever hears she was unfaithful, he may assume it runs in the blood.”
It lands like a slow, cold realization.
“He’d think I’d cheat too?” I whisper.
Keira nods. “Men in this world are superstitious. Old-fashioned. Brutal. Sometimes all three. Do not give them reasons to doubt you.”
I swallow, heat rising in my cheeks.
“Thank you for telling me,” I murmur.
Keira places a hand on my shoulder, her voice gentler now.
“You didn’t choose these circumstances. But now that you will be one of us, you must protect yourself. And caution is protection.”
I nod.
“Also,” she continues, “Since your father can’t attend, I’ll get a replacement. The eldest man in the bratva, Dmitri Grigorevich, will walk you down the aisle. It is a great honor.”
My breath catches. “Thank you. Really.”
She smiles in a way that feels like warmth breaking through fog. “This is your family now. We take care of our own in the Krovavyye Vorony bratva.”
“The what?”
“Krovavyye Vorony means blood ravens. The Sokolov line. Our bratva is known by either name.”
A vision flashes of black feathers floating outside the tower window.
I shrug it off fast.
Instead, I step toward her.
Keira opens her arms, and we hug, an unexpected comfort in a cold, unfamiliar world. Her coat smells like cedar and perfume. She holds me with the brief, decisive squeeze of someone who both sympathizes and prepares.
When she pulls back, she rests her hands lightly on my arms.
“Welcome to the Sokolovs, Peighton,” she says. “You’ll need strength. But you won’t be alone.”
I smile, but ask a more pressing question.
“Keira... tonight, am I expected to sleep with him?”
She flushes beet red.
“Russia is different… but not that different.” She exhales and adds, “Yes.”