Chapter 13
Peighton
Russian receptions last forever.
For hours, I am passed from one guest to another. Some compliment my dress, others bless our marriage with quick, reverent Russian phrases. I didn’t lie to Gustav. His people speak highly of him.
But not in a soft, affectionate way.
More like they worship a storm.
I notice the subtle patterns. The sideways glances when his name is mentioned.
The way conversations tighten when he crosses the room.
The quiet relief when he is out of earshot.
Gustav rules with a mix of charisma and fear, and no one questions it.
Madness is not a weakness here. It is a weapon.
A banner. Something they would rather stand behind than face.
He is their mad king.
Their demon crowned in frost and fire.
Kiera hands me a wineglass. We slip into conversation easily, and when I hesitantly mention him hitting his temple, her expression tightens for a fraction of a second.
Then she laughs softly.
“Eccentricities,” she says, waving a delicate hand. “The apple does not fall far from the tree.”
“Oh? So his dad was the same type of boss?”
“He loved Gustav, and Gustav loved him. It’s sad. The fire ruined—” She chokes up but resets fast. “Forgive me. Such dark things shouldn’t be spoken of at a wedding. Enjoy.”
She won’t say more and floats into the crowd before I can pry further.
Eventually the last guest leaves, and the hall thins into silence. Candlelight glows on abandoned plates and half-emptied glasses. Servers clear tables. I tell myself to help them, but maybe I’m procrastinating.
Gustav is gone. He walked guests to their cars or something.
I slip out of the hall.
I find a mirror in a side corridor. I smooth my hair, brush my fingertips across my lips, and fix my dress. My heart thumps in my ears.
This is my wedding night.
With a man who terrifies me. A man who broke mafia law for me. A man who kissed me like he wanted to swallow my soul. A man regarded as a mad king, ruling with equal parts fear and respect.
But I keep replaying the look he gave me when I touched his hand. That flicker of agony and relief tangled together.
Most people see madness in that gesture. I saw torment.
I saw torture.
Maybe I should go find him.
Maybe I am being foolish.
I bow my head, breathing slowly. I know my truth. I have held it since I was a tween. I will only sleep with a man when there is love. That has always been my rule. Marriage was essential, but I always assumed love came with it.
It’s settled.
No sex tonight. It’ll wait until love follows.
I walk to my bedroom, holding onto my convictions tightly.
When I push the door open, the fireplace crackles inside, filling the room with warm orange light. I step in.
The door clicks shut behind me.
I spin.
Gustav leans against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose. His tux jacket already unbuttoned. His hair still flawless despite the long night. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes... his eyes are something unearthly. Glowing pools of mercury.
He looks at me like he’s been waiting.
He steps forward. “I knew you wouldn’t come to my bedroom.”
My breath catches. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”
“Too innocent.”
He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the chair. Then he begins unbuttoning his dress shirt one slow button at a time.
My eyes widen.
The fabric pulls off of his shoulders, revealing more of that sculpted form. He tosses the shirt to the floor. Those defined muscles of his pecs and stomach, those scars nipping at the edges of his ribs, that dizzying combination of beauty and damage leaves me breathless.
Heat rushes through me. Embarrassing. Potent.
He watches my reaction. His mouth quirks. “Do you want your husband inside you?”
“I... I don’t know,” I answer earnestly, twisting my fingers.
From what seems like thin air, a knife appears in his hand.
I step back.
“Relax, devushka.” He moves behind me in one smooth motion, turning my shoulders gently. His fingertips float down my spine, following the tiny buttons on the back of my dress.
A thread pops, and a button topples onto the hardwood floor, landing by the crackling fire. My lungs freeze.
A pause.
Then—
His blade cuts along the seam, quick and deft. A ruckus of countless buttons sounds as they crash onto the floor.
“You will be the last to wear this dress,” he says.
I swallow hard, nervous as hell. My words fumble. “Gustav, um, we don’t know each other that much. Maybe we should get to know each other first.”
He chuckles low.
I persist.
“Like your favorite food, color—”
“Steak. Black,” he answers near my ear.
“Oh. Uh. I love chocolate. Favorite color is blue. I like cooking, too. And crafting. And swimming. What about you?”
My eyes close as his lips press to my neck. He trails soft caresses, his long fingertips glide up and down my arms.
“I like... weapons,” he rasps against my shoulder. “And killing. And my new favorite thing? Fucking a virgin cunt.”
I gasp, my knees bending as I swivel around, cowering instinctively from the man who was standing behind me. I can’t tell if he is trying to scare me or being honest. Either way, I don’t like it.
He smiles sharply with delight in his eyes.
“Why unhappy? You wanted me to like you. Now you’re a frightened thing when you have all my attention.”
“Oh yeah?” Tears gather behind my eyes without warning. “Then why do I feel like a mouse that’s about to be eaten?”
Something sharp flickers in his eyes, almost like restraint, then it’s gone.
“Mmm. Moyá mishka. My little mouse. How fitting.” He snatches my wrist with an iron fist and drags me close, yet his body is relaxed and carefree, as if this is all a game. His lips skim the shell of my ear. “Tell me, mishka. Has a man ever tasted your sweet pussy?” he murmurs.
I shake, unable to stop it. “No.”
“Fuck. Do you know how sexy it is,” he taunts, “to feel so much innocence tremble against me?”
I shudder.
Just then, he grabs the edges of my ripped dress, and pulls sharply. Fabric tears and the silk slides off my shoulders. The torn dress falls in a soft pool around my feet. Goosebumps race down my bare skin.
I stand there in only my white bra and underwear, breath shaking, heart hammering.
He circles me once, slow and predatory, his gaze moving over every inch of exposed skin. When he stops in front of me, he gives a single command.
“Take them off.”
My face burns.
“Gustav, I promised myself to only sleep with a man I love.”
Which is true, but damn, his gaze — being so close to him — still makes my body want to betray my principles.
He takes my chin lazily. “Only with a man you love… Do you plan to love another man?”
“No! I just...” My throat tightens.
He strokes my neck with his knuckle slowly, up and down, watching me through his thick black lashes.
“Love is cherished by single women. Marriage, on the other hand, is as true as your quivering lip.”
He pinches my bottom lip, then tugs till I swipe at his hand, pushing it away.
He laughs, then traces his thumb down the middle of my chest, past my navel, and pauses. “Marriage is as life changing as a blade through a priceless dress. As undeniable as my cock between your precious thighs.”
He hovers his hot palm over my panties, causing me to inhale a sharp breath. His fingertips graze the thin cotton covering the sensitive skin, not probing, but teasing, threatening to invade.
He lowers his face to mine, making sure I look into those steely gray eyes. “Marriage starts with our vows and ends with our deaths. That is real. That should be cherished above love. Now the rest. Take it off like a good bride, mishka.”