Chapter 25
Gustav
Her room smells like her. Faint sweetness. Something warm. Feminine. It settles in my lungs and softens everything inside me that should stay hard.
I sit in the chair beside her bed, watching her sleep.
It is a dangerous thing, allowing myself this pleasure. Watching her, unguarded, lashes resting on her cheeks, breath soft, lips parted slightly. I should not be here. I should not be letting this in. But I am a weak man where she is concerned.
I can’t let her know that.
I have been keeping my distance, believing school would smooth her edges. She is American. Loud. Emotional. Too honest. I thought structure would teach her to bend. Instead, it’s making her closed off. Punishing her only pushed over the edge.
And when I learned she bought a burner phone from a fellow student, the truth scalded me like acid.
She was preparing to run.
And then she did.
Straight into the snow, into the forest, into the jaws of wolves. My chest tightens at the memory. Her blood on the snow. Her cries. If I had been one minute slower...
No. I cannot think about that.
The real problem lies before me now. Sleeping in a thin cotton shirt that rides up, revealing a sliver of soft waist. My eyes trace the curve of her hips under the blanket. My hand flexes, aching to touch.
I like this. Too much. I like being close. I like having a wife. I like watching her breathe. It is pathetic.
She stirs. Her lashes flutter. Then her eyes snap open.
She startles violently when she sees me.
I cannot help the small smirk that forms.
“Good morning, mishka.”
She presses a hand to her chest, wide-eyed. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“In your room,” I correct. “Not your bed.” I lean forward slightly, letting my voice drop. “Not yet.”
She stiffens immediately. Her gaze flicks away. She is not pleased to see me. That pinch of her brows, that guarded inhale.
Why is she not happy?
My mind leaps too quickly, connecting dots that may not exist. Did someone else get her attention? Has she found comfort somewhere else? A man. A protector. Someone she believes is stable. Someone not born from fire and lies.
I grind my teeth.
The Council meeting replays. They could use her to get to me. They know I’m vulnerable through her. They saw it in my anger when they spoke her name.
I wanted to deny it. But now, looking at her cold expression, it’s undeniable.
I need to trust her. I want to trust her. I just do not know how.
She sits up. Her hair is messy from sleep, and she tries to tame it with quick, agitated fingers. She glances at the clock and gasps.
“I’m late,” she mutters, scrambling out of bed. She dresses in a flustered rush, tugging on her jeans, pulling her sweater over her head, and running a brush through her hair. She slips into her shoes and opens the door.
She pauses.
Micha isn’t there.
She turns back to me, confused. “Where is he?”
I step behind her and hold up her coat for her to slip into. She blushes faintly and obeys. That pleases me more than it should. I smooth the collar and kiss her forehead. She freezes.
“Today,” I say, “I escort you. Not Micha.”
She narrows her eyes. “Other bosses don’t follow people around like this.”
“Most women here are not married to a boss.”
Her cheeks warm, though she tries to hide it. She walks beside me as we exit the dormitory. Her breath huffs in irritation as soon as the cold air hits her.
“This weather is evil,” she grumbles. “I miss the sun. I miss warmth. I miss everything that doesn’t feel like frostbite.”
I chuckle. “This is mild.”
She shoots me a dirty look. Then she complains about class, mean girls, the cafeteria food, the lack of privacy, the homework, the ‘dumb’ etiquette seminars. All things she did not complain about before.
I taunt, “Wait until your self-defense classes start. You will really hate it.”
She glowers, not amused.
She is testing me. Wanting me to react. Wanting me to feel her agitation.
Before I can soothe her, a trio of her schoolmates pass by. They slow noticeably, their eyes dragging over me with reverence and fear. One whispers something that makes the others laugh nervously.
Peighton groans in embarrassment. “Great. They’re going to talk about me all day now.”
“Let them,” I say.
She gives me a skeptical look. “You seriously don’t mind that they act like you’re... I don’t know... some mafia celebrity? Not a beloved one.”
I grin slightly. “They are jealous of you.”
She rolls her eyes, but the faint pink on her cheeks betrays her.
“Jealous of me?” she asks with shy sincerity.
“Da. You’re a wealthy, high-ranking wife of a powerful bratva. Being a Sokolov, the Ravens... a lot of women would love to switch places with you.”
“They would? But they fear you.”
“They respect me,” I say calm, then grin impishly.
She muses, considering my words. Then she crosses her arms and shrugs.
“I don’t think Keira is jealous of me. I think I hurt her prim and proper feelings.” She sulks and looks up at me. “Honestly, I think everyone hates me because I’m American. Because I think this country is terrible toward women. Why does that make me a bad person?”
I was aware her and Keira had a falling out, but the reasoning doesn’t sound like Keira.
“Peighton, it might be the same reason people tend to avoid me. Our delivery.”
“How so?”
“You’re like a cat that was put in a bag, and now you’re out, hissing and scratching everyone.”
“I am?”
She is a storm of rage and nerves. Worse than before. Perhaps I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Perhaps Peighton needs me as much as I need her. I don’t know how to help her, though.
“Do not worry.” I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Go inside with a smile.”
She hesitates, but obeys, looking over her shoulder at me.
A few students gawk. One man tries to approach her as she walks in. I step closer, just enough that my shadow falls over him. He retreats instantly. Good.
I find a place to wait and burn time.
When class ends, she walks out and doesn’t see me. Too far away. She stamps her foot and sighs. I almost snort at how wound up she is. This girl needs to relax.
I stand and gesture to get her attention. Her annoyance evaporates. She looks almost shy as she heads over.
I kiss her lips gently. Then I pull her into a warm hug. She stiffens at first, like she is guarded. Then she melts. It is subtle, but I feel it in the way her hands lightly grip my coat.
“It’s nice to be hugged,” she mutters.
Noted. I can give her lots of those.
We walk together through the courtyard. I open doors for her. I watch her feet so she does not slip on ice. She is weary of everything. Of me. She is suspicious of my kindness, but I can tell she likes it.
We eat lunch in a quiet study area. I sit close, thigh firm to hers. Her fingers play with the edge of her napkin, betraying how aware she is of my body.
People pass by and greet us. Some men bow their heads. Some women flutter their lashes.
“People are not usually like this. It’s just because you’re here,” she whispers.
She shifts closer, just a little, as if staking her claim.
It warms me in a way I cannot describe.
I do not want anyone near us. I enjoy forcing them away. I enjoy being her center of gravity.
She rests her hand on my knee under the table, so subtle it looks accidental. My breath quickens. I move, apparently too fast, because her hand flies off me like she did something wrong.
Shit.
I know she is thinking about the dinner. Right before her punishment began. I fucking traumatized her.
Russian women hide trauma. She bears it. I suppose a loud woman can’t hide much.
I sigh and take her hand in mine. “I made a mistake with you, Peighton. I am... unfamiliar with training a woman like you.”
“Training?” She squints.
“Da. Teaching you. I suppose I went too far at the dinner.”
She slaps the table and mock laughs. “Ya think? I’m not a dog that you can train, Gustav.”
“Hey,” says a man, who suddenly outstretches his hand. “Gustav Sokolov in the flesh. I’m Professor Aslan.”
Gustav eyes the hand. “Are you Peighton’s professor?”
The man shakes his head.
He shrugs. “Then I do not care. Move along.”
The man walks off without another word.
“I thought Russian people were big on manners,” she says softly.
“Not me. Besides, you are my first priority,” I explain.
She swallows. Glances away. Then looks back at me.
“You don’t seem heartless today.”
“Russian men care deeply for their families,” I say. “Even if we appear harsh.”
She nods slowly, like she wants to believe me.
“So you care deeply for me?”
I take her hand and gently kiss the top. Despite my efforts not to twitch, I do. Can’t help it. This woman stirs too many emotions in me. I manage a reply.
“Yes. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be so lost right now.”
“Lost?”
I stand and take her hand. Because talking is too foreign.
She blinks. “Where are we going?”
I guide her toward the back of the library, past rows of shelves.
“To make you see,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches.
She follows.