Chapter 34
Peighton
Afull day crawls by, slow and suffocating, and every hour without Gustav feels like a bruise blooming deeper in my chest. My father survived. The relief is sharp but small compared to the dread twisting inside me.
I can’t shake the feeling he is watching. That he is near. That any moment the doors will explode open and he’ll storm in, wild-eyed, accusing, furious.
Every time a door opens, I tense. Every time a text buzzes, my heart leaps. But it is never him.
By evening, Micha tells me gently, “He will not come tonight. Get some rest.” His reassurance does nothing. Instead, it makes everything ache worse.
Tyra and a few others convince me to get drinks. “You’ll combust if you don’t drink something,” she says, tugging on my wrist. So I go, desperate for anything that stops my mind from exploding.
The bar is packed and loud, warm bodies crushed together to escape the cold. Vodka helps. Not much, but a little. I dance with Tyra until sweat slicks down my back and under my tits. For a moment I even laugh, until—
A tall figure in the corner. Still. Watching. Shoulders too broad. Head tilted like Gustav’s when he’s studying me like prey.
My pulse spikes and I push through the crowd. “Gustav?” I call over the music, voice cracking. The man backs away. I follow, weaving between bodies, breath coming fast. The man slips toward the hallway. I break into a run and grab his forearm.
He spins around.
Not Gustav.
I stare at the stranger’s confused face. My throat tightens. Tears burn my eyes.
“Sorry,” I whisper, backing away. “I’m sorry.”
I return to the group. Tyra squeezes my shoulders. “Hey. Hey. Breathe.”
I breathe, but it feels hopeless.
We walk back to St. Andrews. The cold gnaws at my ankles. Tyra keeps an arm looped through mine the whole way, murmuring soft comforts until we reach my room. I collapse on the bed with my coat still on, exhaustion dragging me under.
The next morning is a blur of drills and etiquette workshops and clinical lectures on mob protocol. My hangover pounds behind my eyes. I’m too tired to be afraid, which helps, but only barely.
By afternoon, the compound shifts. Black cars roll through the gates. Heavy footsteps echo in corridors. Voices deepen. The air thickens with authority. Several mob bosses gather for a neutral-ground meeting, though no one expects Gustav. He’s unreachable. Off grid.
I walk down the school corridor, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, when suddenly my back slams into a wall. A sharp blade kisses the thin skin of my throat. I freeze.
A breath — hot, ragged — brushes my cheek. Gray eyes. Wild. Wrathful. Unhinged.
My Gustav.
“Did you fuck him?” he snarls. “Did you let another man touch you?”
His nostrils flare like a rabid animal’s, jaw clenched so tight the muscles bulge. The knife presses deeper, cold and merciless. A bead of blood slides down my neck.
Fear should paralyze me. It doesn’t.
Relief floods me instead, warm and dizzying. My husband is here. Alive. Within reach. Furious, yes, but back in my orbit like gravity correcting itself.
I lift one hand slowly and cup his cheek. His skin is too warm. His hair is disheveled. And there: fresh cuts across his temples, like red letter Xs, the lines of dried blood.
“Oh baby,” I whisper, my thumb brushing gently over the Xs. “You did this?”
He growls, chest heaving against me. The blade trembles where it presses into my throat.
“I know! I’ll do it,” he says under his breath, and I can tell, he isn’t talking to me.
“Shh,” I say softly. “Don’t listen to those voices. I’m here now, Gustav. Me. Peighton.”
His eyes flicker, confusion knifing through the fury. He blinks once. Twice.
I say the truth.
“I love you, baby. There’s no way I can let someone touch me like you do. I’m yours. Come back to me.”
The pressure of the knife eases. My breath finally reaches my lungs. I take my chance, grab the blade from his hand like I was taught, and slip it behind me. Before he can react, I lean up and kiss him.
A soft graze of lips. Warm. Familiar. Grounding. My tongue invades his mouth and he lets me.
When we part, his breathing is different. Shaky and uneven. I look him over. His shirt is buttoned wrong. His collar crooked. Shirt untucked. His hair wild from stress or fighting.
Male voices echo from down the hall. Bosses approaching.
Wife-mode clicks into place.
I unfasten the top of his shirt with quick hands, smooth the fabric, re-button correctly, then tuck the hem into his slacks with force — like I own this madman.
His chest rises with each breath, watching me intently, struggling to stay still under my touch.
I lick my fingertips and smooth his hair, combing it back. I check him over. Much better.
The hallway fills with footsteps. I grab Gustav’s hand just as the men round the corner.
They stop, surprised. Then relieved. Then respectful.
“Gustav,” one says. “We thought you wouldn’t make it.”
He nods stiffly. “My apologies. Business.”
Their gazes move to me. One smiles. “Your wife is lovely.”
Gustav’s fingers tighten around mine. Possessive.
“She is,” he replies.
They leave.
The moment they’re gone, Gustav crowds me back against the wall, palms braced on either side of my head. His forehead dips to my temple. His breath shakes.
“I think I’m sick,” he whispers, voice breaking in a way that stabs straight through my ribs.
“I know,” I say softly, threading my fingers through his hair, petting him like he’s something wounded and precious.
He exhales, shuddering.
“I’m getting worse.”
“I know,” I say again.
Despite the sharp sadness of it all, a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
He came back. He chose me. And I am the only one he lets in.
I press my cheek to his shoulder, holding him close, and whisper another truth that terrifies me most.
“New rule. I’m not leaving you. You don’t leave me again. No more disappearing.”
And in the quiet of the corridor, with his body shielding over mine, I promise myself I will find a way to save him.
Even if it destroys us, I won’t let him burn alone.