Chapter 11
Peighton
My mother should be here. My father.
Instead, I walk with a frail man, Dmitri, down a stone corridor lined with warm strings of lights. The castle feels more like a cathedral tonight. A place where vows feel holy and binding only in my world.
The mafia.
Or in Russia, bratva is how I should say it.
I step into the giant hall and stop breathing.
The space is packed with hundreds of faces. The moment I cross the threshold, the room inhales a slow, unified breath that feels ancient, as if the Sokolov line itself has been waiting just for me.
Gustav stands at the altar in a black tuxedo. He looks carved from stone. His hair slicked back perfectly. His broad shoulders filling the suit in a way that makes something flutter inside me. His storm-gray eyes lift to mine.
He is breathtaking. Dangerously alluring. Beautiful in a way that should not be possible for someone so cruel.
My stomach flips just from the gravity of what I am about to do.
I walk toward him, the candles flickering with each step.
Bratva men and their wives stand in silent rows. Their gazes are heavy. Curious. Most are cold. I feel all of their eyes, but I focus on only one man.
Gustav.
He watches every move I make. Every sway of the dress. Every shift of my eyes.
A few of the older men lower their heads slightly as I pass. Not at Gustav. At me.
When I reach him, he does not speak. The officiant begins speaking in Russian. I don’t understand a word.
Then Gustav does something strange.
He presses his temple with his fingertip, tapping it once. Twice. Irritated. He winces. Just for a second.
My brow furrows.
Was that pain? Anger? Something else entirely?
He whispers under his breath, almost imperceptibly, as if trying to hide it. Whatever it is, he didn’t want anyone else to see or hear it. But then, he thumps his temple with the heel of his palm. Hard.
Before I can stop myself, I take his hand quickly and lower it.
Murmurs ripple at our peripheral, making me feel like I did something terribly wrong. It seemed like the right thing to do, though. Trying to be more subtle, I hold his hand loosely.
His eyes lift to mine. Startled or curious, I’m unsure.
“Are you alright?” I whisper.
He narrows his eyes, then nods, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. I leave my fingers resting lightly against his.
I want to ask more, but not here. Not in front of all these people.
To my surprise, Gustav then squeezes my hands. It is slight, quick, but freaking unmistakable. Affection. Relief. Something in him softens for a heartbeat.
Then the officiant hands him a ceremonial knife.
My stomach drops.
Uh...
Gustav lifts my hand and turns it palm up. His gaze locks with mine, steady and unflinching. He draws the blade across my palm. The cut is sharp, quick, shallow enough not to scar but deep enough to bleed. I gasp softly. He does not look away.
He slices his own palm next, a matching wound.
Then he fits our cuts together.
The warmth of his blood meets mine. It is unnerving and intimate, a ritual far older than me. A murmur of approval rolls through the hall, subtle but unmistakably reverent.
His voice is low and precise when he speaks, first in Russian, then just for me.
“Your blood is mine. My blood is yours.”
All of the guests say something low.
He lifts our joined hands slightly. “I will protect your life above my own, for you are the mother of our family, the bearer of our kin.”
The entire congregation chants loud and in unison: “Мы будем.”
My pulse races, their roar hitting deeper, amplifying his power.
His gaze penetrates my soul as he echoes their chant:
“Мы будем — We will.”
The officiant looks my way.
“Do you have anything to say to Gustav?”
I reply with what is on my heart.
“I will be faithful to the Sokolov Bratva,” I say. “And I will make you proud, like I was proud of you...” then whisper, “when you saved me from the river, and from those men.”
His breath catches. For the first time, he looks almost uncomfortable or impressed with me.
A subtle shift in the crowd follows, heads tilting, eyes sharpening, something like approval stirring through them. I suppose they weren’t expecting any words from his foreign bride.
The officiant continues. My fingers tremble in Gustav’s. The room swims slightly. I feel disassociated, floating between terror and hope.
Then the question comes.
“Do you take this man as your husband?”
I inhale sharply. “I do.”
“And do you take this woman as your wife?”
Gustav does not hesitate. “I do.”
It echoes through me.
The officiant nods. “You may kiss the bride.”
I freeze. I never thought I would want this moment with him. Yet now, my heartbeat is a wild drum. I rise onto my tiptoes without thinking, reaching toward him.
He leans down.
The kiss is soft... yet shocking. His lips are warm and soft. His hands cup my jaw, thumb grazing my cheek with surprising tenderness. But it changes, sharp and sudden. I feel him holding back. I feel the restraint shaking inside him. The tension in his hand tells me he wants to pull me closer.
Our lips part for a breathless second. His chest rises with a quiet, ragged inhale. He kisses me again, deeper, but still careful. My knees feel weak. The moment is sensual and terrifying in equal measure.
When our lips separate, he doesn’t look at me right away. He lowers his head slightly, gaze on the floor, jaw tight.
For a split second, I catch him raising his hand toward his temple again. He stops himself. His fingers tremble once. Then he steadies.
The officiant announces something in Russian.
The ceremony is over.
Applause rises around us. Now, everyone bows their heads to me as we turn, their gestures stiff with respect, a recognition that rattles me more than the blood ritual did. I am different somehow.
Gustav steps back.
But the distance between us chills me more than the entire castle ever has.