Chapter 16
Peighton
Warmth.
The first thing I notice is the warmth. A soft, luxurious blanket cocooned around me. Heavy. Expensive. Comforting in a way nothing about this castle should ever feel.
I blink awake slowly, stretching into the softness.
This isn’t my blanket.
He covered me. He must have come back while I slept.
Gustav Sokolov, mad king of this frozen fortress, tucked a blanket around my sleeping body like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I lie there a moment longer, letting the scent of him on the fabric lull me. It smells like cedar and something darker. Something so wonderfully him.
Eventually, I sit up, blanket wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak, and wander toward the window, noticing movement outside.
Smoke curls past the glass.
At first, I think the ice garden is somehow on fire, but as I step closer, pressing a palm against the cold pane, my breath catches.
Below, on the snow-dusted courtyard—
Gustav stands beside a burning car. The car the Morozov men arrived in.
Four bodies lie on the ground, already stiff, already blackening at the edges from the flames.
His enforcers move around him with efficient brutality, tossing fuel, feeding flames, kicking debris aside. The fire roars up, crackling against the cold air.
My stomach drops, but not from fear. From disbelief at the man setting the world on fire before breakfast.
Just then, Gustav pauses.
His head lifts.
He looks up straight to the second-story window — straight at me. As if he felt my eyes on him from fifty feet away.
A slow, sharp smile spreads across his face. The kind that says he knows exactly what I’m seeing. Exactly what he did. Exactly who he is.
My heart flutters anyway.
Ridiculous. Completely insane.
But my fingers move on their own, a tiny bashful wave, like a princess greeting her dark prince.
His smile widens. Just for a moment.
Heat crawls up my neck. I spin away and bury my face in the blanket. I get ready for the day, taking a shower and slipping on a warm outfit. I can’t stop smiling about everything. The wedding, reception… after. I want to tell the world, but I’ll settle for Tyra.
Except I don’t have my phone. I fold up the blanket and head to Gustav’s bedroom. To return it. That’s all.
I set it gently on his bed and back away.
Might as well look around.
Something catches my eye.
My phone. Sitting on the dresser beside coins, a necklace, and cuff links.
It’s clearly a sign.
I hesitate only a second before taking it, cradling it in both hands like something precious. I run my thumb over the screen. It won’t turn on. Dead. I simply hold it, strangely afraid he might snatch it back.
We are different now, though. Closer. I don’t know what to call it, but it doesn’t feel wrong to take it back.
I slip it into my pocket and leave. In a long hallway, I stop upon hearing something.
A low, guttural moan.
Agonized. Male. Haunting.
It drifts through the hall from somewhere to the left.
Guilt prickles, but curiosity pulls harder.
Wrapping my arms around me, heart hammering, I move slowly down the hall and push open a door.
Inside—
The blond man from my first dinner. Flushed cheeks. Bleeding lip. Arms spread and chained against an iron frame. Naked. Shivering. Jagged gashes carved down his side.
A puddle streaks his inner thigh. The floor is stained beneath him. It smells of urine.
He whimpers, head lolling when he notices me.
“Help me.”
It’s not spoken, but his eyes scream it.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, rushing forward. This is obviously a prisoner, but I don’t know! It freaking wrong. I hold out my hands, unsure what to do. I whisper, “Hang on. Don’t move.”
His wrists are rubbed raw. The chains bite into his skin. He’s too weak to hold his head up.
I look for keys. Nothing.
The rope around his ankles is tied so brutally tight it’s cutting off circulation.
I grab a cup from a nearby table, fill it at a basin in the corner, and return. My hands shake as I lift the cup to his cracked lips.
He drinks greedily. Water spills down his chin.
“Thank you,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Please… help…”
His tears spill freely. Real tears. No bravado of a mobster, but the terror of a broken human being.
My heart cracks. I touch his forehead, shushing him. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll… help you. I promise.”
A shadow moves behind me.
I freeze. Turn.
Gustav stands in the doorway, expression carved from stone.
Micha flanks him, hands behind his back, already assessing the scene.
Gustav’s eyes find me first.
Me here. The water. My hand on another man’s face.
Something fractures inside him. God, no. I see it — a silent shatter behind his irises.
That fragile bond formed last night snapped. That reality stabs into me unexpectedly. I’m not trying to free his prisoner. I’m just— it’s so cruel.
“Gustav…” I whisper, stepping back, lowering my eyes. I feel exposed, but differently than last night. Shame rises in my throat.
The pain flickers, and darkness pours in to replace it.
He moves before I can blink.
A flash of steel. A wet sound like a gasp cut short. The blond man’s eyes jerk wide. His entire body jolts.
A line of crimson opens across his throat.
He gurgles once.
Then silence.
He just slit the man’s throat.
I slap a hand over my mouth. My knees nearly buckle. Micha catches my elbow, steady and calm, the way someone is when they see monsters act exactly as expected.
I’ve never seen someone killed before. It’s nothing like the movies. It feels like a soul was just torn from the room and nothing can be reversed.
Gustav doesn’t look at the body.
He doesn’t look at Micha.
He looks at me.
Chest heaving. Eyes wild. Every emotion buried under one terrifying wordless snarl of betrayal.
He storms out.
Just leaves the dead man, and me shaking, heart pounding so violently my ribs ache.
Micha remains serene, as if the blood still dripping from the man’s throat is nothing more than spilled wine. He places a steadying hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the hallway.
“Come,” he murmurs. “This room is forbidden. You will learn which doors to keep closed.”
I let him lead me, legs unsteady, heart still hammering. My mind keeps replaying the moment Gustav’s eyes met mine, the flash of hurt, the blaze of fury that swallowed him whole. It follows me down the corridor like a shadow.
When we reach my bedroom, Micha pauses at the doorway.
“Pack your things,” he says calmly.
My voice cracks. “Why?”
“We leave shortly.”
“Leave? Where?” My thoughts collide. Am I being sent away? Punished? Traded? “What are you talking about?”
“To St. Andrew’s,” he answers, hands folding behind his back. “Where you will learn how to be a proper bratva wife.”
Insult lights in my chest like a spark to dry brush.
“I already know how,” I snap. “I grew up in a major criminal organization, Micha. I get the rules. The hierarchy. The protocols. I’ve known them since I could walk. I just— it was a human being and I reacted. With water.”
“Da,” he agrees with a faint nod. “But you were raised in an American mafia. The Bratva requires something different. You must be taught to be a Russian wife.”
My mouth falls open.
The implication is probably different rules.
Different expectations.
Different obedience.
My heart sinks.
“I… don’t need lessons,” I insist weakly. “I can figure it out.”
Micha’s look is gentle. Almost pitying.
“No, Peighton. You cannot. All new bratva wives go. Especially bosses’ wives.”
He gestures toward the wardrobe with a quiet finality.
“Pack quickly. A new bride must be prepared.”
And for the first time since arriving in this frozen nightmare, I am unsure if I’m more afraid of Gustav’s violence or the life they expect me to learn. Am I to accept that kind of torture under my roof? It doesn’t feel right.