Chapter 23
Peighton
Iwake up sore everywhere.
Not just from the bites on my leg and arm, but from my broken heart. The cold. The terror. The way my bones shook until they didn’t feel like mine anymore.
And Gustav’s solution?
Drops me off at my dorm like an Uber Eats order and vanishes again.
Unbelievable.
Yes, he saved me from wolves. Yes, he got me off in the backseat afterward like some kind of dark sex dream. But that is not an apology. Not for the dinner. Not for the belt. Not for the way he acted like punishing me was his God-given right.
I’m over it. Or I’m trying to be.
Because wanting a husband who actually behaves like one apparently makes me a delusional American princess.
Fine. Let me be delusional.
And let me plan a better escape next time... after my next class.
My new class is called Kidnapping.
As if my life isn’t enough of a warning label already.
Two Sokolov guards flank me as I walk across the courtyard toward the athletic building. They don’t speak, but they might as well have flight risk branded across their foreheads. I can’t even roll my eyes because one has cuts on his jaw. I’m pretty sure he got hurt chasing me through the woods.
They open the door for me. I step onto bright blue mats covering the floor. A long line of women form near the front. The instructor waits dressed in full karate gear, like we’re in a dojo and not an underground mafia school for future criminals and their families.
He barks orders in accented English.
“Hurry. Line up. Partner assignment.”
Great.
He points at each woman in turn. When he reaches me, he gestures to a young man stepping forward. A handsome one, maybe twenty, with dimples, warm brown hair tied back in a low ponytail, and the kind of boyish smile that disarms you before you remember where you are.
“Brutus,” he says when I ask his name.
“Peighton. Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands.
The instructor’s whistle blasts, sharp as a gunshot.
“Drill one. Escape your partner.”
I barely register the words before I’m trampled onto the mat and this beast of a man is pinning me down, crushing me under his weight. I gasp and wince. Around me women groan or yelp as they meet similar fates. Some already look done for the day.
Brutus rises and stands over me, grimacing sympathetically as he offers a hand.
“Sorry,” he says in his soft Siberian accent. “Instructor wants real force. I do what I’m told.”
I take his hand, slightly dazed. “I know. It’s fine. It’s your job.”
He helps steady me as I stand, and for a second his gentle smile makes something in my chest loosen. He’s kind. Not like the others. Not like my boorish husband.
Another whistle.
“Drill two,” the instructor calls. “Escape a chokehold. Or tap out.”
Before I can brace, Brutus locks his muscular forearm across my throat from behind, a clean, practiced motion. I grab at his arm, try to duck, twist, even bite his flesh, but his hold doesn’t budge.
Blood rushes hot to my head. My vision fuzzes. I tap. Hard.
As soon as I do, he releases me instantly and steadies me with both hands.
“You okay?” he asks, brows drawn.
“One woman passed out,” someone mutters behind me.
Another girl fixes her hair with shaking hands.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m fine. I think.”
He gives me a small, relieved smile.
I shouldn’t like that smile.
Another whistle.
“Drill three. Surrender, run, or fight.”
I inhale sharply.
Chaos erupts.
Brutus lunges before I finish breathing. I’m grabbed by the waist, lifted, and thrown again. The mat knocks the air from me so violently tears spring to my eyes. I’m scrambling to inhale when a foot kicks my back.
Women sprint, shriek, get caught and thrown back. One tries to fight by biting her partner’s ankle and gets pinned instantly. Others surrender with trembling hands raised.
I surrender too.
Running never works. Not in real life. Fighting is dumb. I’ll always lose without a gun.
The whistle stops the madness.
A line of dizzy, shaken women forms again.
The instructor marches toward me, his big nose almost touching mine.
“You surrender too easily.”
I scoff before I can bite it back. “Running never works. I would know. Fighting is pointless. What am I supposed to do?”
“Take this class seriously,” he snaps. “Or you will not survive.”
I flinch.
He means it literally and continues:
“Welcome to Kidnapping. That was a taste of the bruises you will bear. The fear. The adrenaline. Every woman in here is valuable... and fragile. I will make you tough. I will make you live.”
Although I dislike this man, I must admit, I’d do anything to be tougher. I’m tired of this frozen struggle. This class... I like it.
After class, Brutus hands me a water bottle.
“You did well,” he says gently.
I laugh, incredulous. “Was that well?”
“For your first day,” he says with dimples, “yes.”
“Where are you from?”
“Siberia,” he says, like it’s no big deal. For him, probably isn’t.
I see Micha waiting by the door, arms crossed, stance protective.
“I should go,” I tell Brutus.
He nods, still smiling, and something in my chest squeezes.
Brutus looks at me once more, just a glance, brief but warm. My stomach almost flips. Maybe in a romantic way. Or like someone is actually seeing me way.
For a split second, I even think...
I wish Gustav looked at me like that.
Then I hate myself for it.
Gustav hasn’t looked at me with anything but disappointment or rage since the castle. Since the dinner. Since I was belted, since he let the room watch me panic, since he punished me for breathing wrong.
Brutus is the opposite: gentle smiles, soft apologies, dimples.
I am staring at him like an idiot when Micha clears his throat.
My gaze tears away.
“I saw nothing,” Micha says quietly as I fall in step beside him.
I breathe out, relieved but confused. “Uh. Okay.”
We walk together toward my dorm. Snow crunches under our boots. My leg throbs where the wolves bit me.
“I’m sorry for running away yesterday,” I tell him quietly. “I hope you didn’t get in trouble.”
He shakes his head. “I worried. But I forgive.” Then, softer, “Please do not do it again. My heart cannot handle it... and Gustav may not forgive me twice.”
Guilt slices through me.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
My phone buzzes. I check the screen.
Dad.
Of course.
How’s the Russian?
I don’t answer. I blame him for all of this. For not fighting harder. For letting me be traded. For calling it law.
I shove the phone away.
Micha walks beside me, hands in his coat pockets, his bald head glinting under the winter sun. He feels safe. Solid. The opposite of the chaos Gustav brings.
I glance at him. “Thank you for being like... a dad,” I say. “A good one.”
He doesn’t flinch at the comparison. “I lost my daughter,” he murmurs. “If my advice helps you, then I’m proud to help.”
My throat tightens. “I’m so sorry.”
“It is fine. Twenty years ago. Pneumonia.” He pauses, then adds gently, “Here is advice I would have told her: Do not be tempted by another man. Gustav will make a good husband.”
I stare at him, and reply softly, “How?”
He gives me a look that is both patient and sad.
“He chose me to guard you,” Micha says. “He chose someone safe. Someone loyal. Someone who would protect you even from him. That means something. Men like him do not choose lightly.”
I stop walking.
The wind stings my eyes. My leg aches. My heart feels twisted into impossible shapes.
And for the first time, I wonder if Gustav choosing Micha truly was an act of care... or a mistake he will never be stable enough to repeat.
I shouldn’t worry. Probably won’t see him again for weeks. Maybe months.
I frown, because deep down, a tiny piece of me still aches for the man I married.