Chapter 32
Gustav
Peighton’s messages glow on my phone like tiny, treacherous flames.
Wife
I miss you.
I’m sorry about the phone.
*Picture of her smiling sweetly*
I stare at it longingly. The room hushes around me, the silence thick as snow.
“She misses me,” I murmur.
The words slip out before I can cage them.
For a moment, one dangerous and disarming moment, my chest tightens in a way that is almost… pleasant.
I remember how she felt underneath me. Soft and warm. Fragile but not fragile at all. The way her thighs trembled violently when my cock finally sank into her little body, the way she looked into my eyes, trusting without understanding what a mistake that was.
Letting me violate her, coax vile words from her sweet mouth, and submitting shamelessly to me like I’m her everything.
The second she moved her hips toward mine, I knew it was more than her submission, though. She wanted it as bad as I did. Her dignity didn’t matter. She felt the pleasure in spite of it. My woman.
She gave me her innocence, and it branded me as hers.
I close my eyes.
Is this what love feels like?
A sharp sting erupts in the back of my skull. My father’s voice roars through the depths of my mind.
She lied to you. She betrayed you. She took back what you confiscated. She is American fruit. Tempting the weak. You saw her last night.
I grind my teeth.
“I know!” I snap into my empty bedroom.
His voice thunders louder.
You saw her ass up, begging like a cat in heat. She’ll do that for other men. Probably already has.
My knees hit the stone floor hard and I grasp my hair with both hands, hard enough that fire shoots across my scalp. Strands tear free between my fingers. Pain floods behind my eyes. He wants more. He always wants more.
“Stop!” I shout. “I will get rid of her. I will do it. When the time is right. Just as we planned!”
The truth tastes like blood and iron.
My father’s laughter floods my skull. A laugh I never forgot.
His dark voice is clear.
You want her, Gustav. You crave her. You are weak. While you long for her, she’s moaning for Boris. Right now. Don’t be a lustful whore.
I see it. Some bastard railing her like I did, but she likes him better.
The room spins. My breath stutters. I can’t think over the mocking echo. I stagger upright and lurch to the bathroom mirror. My reflection is a blur of pale skin and wild stormy eyes.
Father’s laugh. Whispers. Screams.
I grab the razor blade from the counter.
If I can cut it open, the voices will fall out.
I press the blade to my temple. A line of red breaks the surface. Then more. The sting is sharp and cleansing. Blood runs down the side of my face in a warm trail.
The voice croons.
Good. Da. Open your head. Let us out.
I press the blade deeper.
A hand closes around my wrist.
Her.
The woman steps into the reflection behind me. Raven-dark hair braided neatly down her back, hourglass figure wrapped in a cream blouse and fitted skirt. My age. A face too beautiful for the darkness in this place. Calm and composed. Sweet.
Sophia.
She eases the blade from my fingers, wiping the blood with her sleeve.
“You cannot cut yourself open every time your marriage stresses you,” she says softly. “Or kill every guard who annoys you.”
I glance past her.
A body lies sprawled in the doorway. Another by the fireplace. I vaguely remember snapping one man’s neck. The other tried to intervene. I don’t remember finishing him, but the evidence is clear enough.
She steps around the corpses as if they’re laundry someone forgot to fold.
“Councilmen came by earlier,” she says. “They asked questions about the Morozov boy.”
A pulse thuds at the base of my skull. My jaw twitches. “They won’t leave me alone.”
“They won’t,” she answers. “You’ve been reckless. If they decide you executed a rival boss without cause, we will all be in a grave.”
I wipe the blood from my temple with the back of my hand. The sting grounds me. “I will fix this.”
“You said that yesterday,” she taunts.
She isn’t convinced.
Then the thought hits me, bright, violent, and exhilarating.
“I should kill out of the country instead,” I say. “Not Russian men. Americans. Her father, perhaps. For lying to me through her. For raising a dishonest woman.”
Sophia freezes.
“Gustav. No. He’s a boss.”
But I’m already smiling. The idea lights fire through my chest. My blood feels effervescent. I stride past her. Past the bodies—
The bodies are gone.
I blink.
No. I was mistaken. I didn’t kill anyone. Carry on.
In the hallway, sunlight slashes through a stained-glass window, casting red across the floor.
“Time to take a trip,” I say, and my voice feels lighter than it did.
I will kill far from home.
Peighton’s father fits perfectly. That will teach her not to break rules until it’s time for us to part ways.
I flinch.
Walk on.
I step outside with a smile and a skip in my step.
Because nothing quiets the voices like blood.
And nothing distracts me from my wife like the thought of destroying the things she holds dear.
Because I can’t feel things for her. I shouldn’t fuck her again.
She’s a witch, tricking me with her beauty.
That body. Her soft whimpers. The sinister words she spoke to make me feel whole.
She doesn’t fucking love me.
God… I want to taste her neck again. Drag my cheek against her soft skin. Feel her nipples graze my chest. Hear her moan my name. Read her damn texts.
I take out my phone.
Delete them.
My face twitches.
Block her.
My body shudders hard upon severing my direct connection to her.
I drop into the backseat of the car, instructing the driver to the airport. Beside me rests the scarf she knitted. I reach over and clutch it in my fist. I hate that she gave this to me, yet I hold it with a death-grip, refusing to put it back down.
As the forest whisks by, I rock slightly, staring at the words.
“Contact blocked,” I murmur.
I repeat it, trying to be okay. I thumb the scarf.
I’m not okay.