Chapter 20
Peighton
Gustav’s broad shoulders fill the space. Petyr steps in behind him, composed but tense, eyes scanning the room.
My body sags in relief before I can stop it. I sniff and try to get off the table, but glasses slide, plates tip, and my heel slips. Before I can move, Gustav lifts one hand in a simple gesture.
Stop.
I stop. Obey instantly. Even my lungs freeze.
Gustav steps forward with a slow, cold swagger that chills me more than the belt had. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose. Head tilted slightly, studying me like I’m an enemy he isn’t sure whether to off.
Not a single man speaks.
I flatten my dress, wiping my shaking palms against the fabric. My hair is a mess. My cheek throbs where the leather struck. I try to tuck loose strands behind my ears, but my fingers tremble too much to manage anything. Confusion tangles with dread.
Why is he looking at me like that?
He stops a few feet away. His gray eyes drag across my body, my flushed face, my reddened cheek, the broken plates near my knees. His gaze returns to mine, sharp enough to cut.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost mild, but threaded with disdain.
“I did not want an American wife. Mother chose you.”
The words punch the air from my chest. My mouth parts, unable to process the blow.
He steps closer.
“Too unrefined,” he continues. “Raised to believe her opinion matters. Always speaking. Always inserting herself. Foolish enough to touch another man. A prisoner, no less.”
I flinch. “Gustav, that’s not fair. I didn’t mean—”
He claps his hands, loud enough to echo off the walls. “And there it is. That mouth. That need to argue back. How fucking American.”
The men murmur in agreement. A few chuckle. My throat tightens as hot tears push to the surface. I shake my head, mouthing, I’m sorry. I want to beg. I want to defend myself. I also want to disappear.
Gustav steps directly in front of me. The table’s edge presses into the backs of my thighs. I feel tiny compared to him. Breakable.
He lifts one large hand and traces the welt on my cheek with a featherlight stroke. My breath catches. Not because it hurts, but because the gentleness is somehow worse.
He glares at the enforcers. “Who did this?”
The belt wielding man stiffens and immediately bows his head. “Boss, me. The lesson—”
Gustav’s arm moves faster than sight. The dagger he hurls slams into the wall beside the man’s skull, so close the blade bites a strand of his hair. The man jerks sideways, eyes wide.
Gustav roars, “I said no one touches my wife!” His voice rattles the glasses on the table. “Scare her, yes. Break her Westernized spirit, yes. But mark her? Harm her? You dare?”
My heart slams against my ribs. He is furious. He draws a gun from his waistband with a tic in his cheek that signals the madness is crowding him.
I reach out on instinct and grab his forearm.
“Gustav. Stop. Please.” My voice shakes, but I don’t let go. “He shouldn’t have hit me, but... killing him is not an eye for an eye—”
Which is true, and a sacred rule of mafia law.
He rounds on me so fast the blood drains from my face. His eyes burn with shock and anger, as if my interference is a deeper betrayal than the lash.
“You question me? Again.” His voice is low, dangerous, and disgusted.
All eyes swing to me. The room holds its breath.
He turns his head slightly, says something sharp and rapid in Russian. I recognize none of it, except the tone. It is a command.
Two men step forward at once.
Before I can react, they seize me — one from each side — and bend me forward over the table. My palms slap against spilled drink. My chest and dress soak in the cold liquid. My breath stutters in my throat. They hold me down, bent over, cheek held flat on the table.
A gasp tears from me. “Gustav—”
He stands behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of his body against the back of my legs. His breathing is controlled, but the darkness radiating off him is unmistakable. Thick. Hungry. Wrathful.
He speaks in English this time, every word precise.
“You will not correct me. You will not interfere when I give punishment. You will not tell me when to kill or when to spare.” A pause. His fingers stroke the round curve of my hip, deceptively soft. “You think you know this world, moyá mishka. You do not.”
I blink rapid tears, hands clutching the tablecloth.
He fists my hair and yanks my head back, leans down, voice vibrating against my ear.
“Now tell me.” A beat. “Will you behave?”
My throat works. Every muscle trembles. I nod, because what else can I do with ten men in the room and a gun in his hand.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’ll behave.”
His mouth curves, amused. He says loudly, “She’ll behave!”
The room chuckles. Some clap.
I die a little inside.
His mouth draws to my ear and his bravado fades, his voice a soft murmur.
“Seeing you touch another man.” He strokes my cheek with his knuckles, sloppy and taunting. “I’ve never been so jealous in my life. Then you have the gall to walk in here with your tits out. Have you lost your fucking mind?”
I shiver, stunned. I did hurt him with the prisoner. And the dress? I guess that was another mistake.
“Gustav, I’m sorry. I’ll get better.”
“Want me to leave? You tempt these men. You must want them to fuck you.”
God, no.
I thrash like a caged animal. “Don’t you dare!” I hiss, then softer. “You know you’re the only one who’s touched me.”
He grips my hair harder. His weight keeps me pinned on the table. He licks the side of my face in the degrading way he does, making me grimace, then he laughs before drawing his lips near my ear once more. His tone drops.
“I don’t share.”
He turns his head slightly, addressing the room with a low command in Russian. Most men file out.
He rises off me. A flicker of something — regret? restraint? — flashes through his eyes before he buries it beneath fury.
Micha appears.
Gustav cracks his neck. “Watch over her. See you in a couple of weeks.”
Micha nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll take her back to her dorm now.”
I’m almost afraid to look Gustav in the eyes because I don’t know what will set him off. I think just being myself is a trigger. Ugh.
But he leaves. Just storms out. Again, no goodbye. Even though he just humiliated me, I am still not okay with my husband treating me like I’m unworthy of basic civility.
I cross my arms and scowl at Micha.
“You better say hello to me like I’m a human being or I swear to God I’ll never forgive you.”
He smiles, half warm, half compassionate.
“Hello, Mrs. Sokolova. Let’s get you back.”
I appreciate it, but frown. “I ruined everything, didn’t I?”
He points at the empty doorway Gustav vanished through.
“That?” Micha shakes his head. “Punishment is tradition. But Gustav doing it... he would never. Until you.” His voice softens. “It’s obvious he cares for you.”