Chapter 37
Peighton
This is very bad, and not because of Keira’s warning. I feel it. I feel the threat in the room and it isn’t against my life. It’s against Gustav’s.
I plaster on a warm smile. The big American one that I left back with my father.
“Yes. Let’s chat. I’ve been dying to meet a councilman,” I lie.
Rupert waits until the classroom noise softens, until the Keira’s back is turned, until every student is absorbed in their notes. Then he tilts his head toward me with that quiet, aristocratic authority that chills my blood.
“Follow me.” His English accent is thick and elegant. A command wearing the mask of courtesy.
I follow. A few students look over, curious. No one expects a councilman to summon a bratva wife in broad daylight — without her husband.
He guides me through the back exit. When the door closes, the air feels colder.
He leads me down a dim hallway to a private office. No windows, no cameras, only a single lamp humming over a polished desk.
He gestures for me to sit. I do.
Rupert looks too good for someone who makes my skin crawl. Mid-twenties, russet curls framing his forehead, glasses that somehow make him cuter, not nerdy. He’s undeniably attractive. The kind of handsome that could be trouble.
And that’s exactly what he feels like. Trouble wrapped in ambition, with a sheen of slime just beneath the surface.
“You are safe with me,” he says as he settles opposite. “You may speak freely.”
I clasp my hands in my lap. “About what?”
His smile is small and venom-sweet. “Your husband, of course.”
My body tenses before I can stop it.
He notices.
“You seem uneasy,” he says softly. “These things happen when one is married to someone… unpredictable.”
“He isn’t unpredictable,” I lie again.
“Then what would you call the twitching? The muttering? The new cuts on his temples?” Rupert’s fingers steeple. “Councilmen observed all of it over the last two years. Including myself.”
My pulse stutters. I force my expression blank.
“Why else would he get a Yellow Card? We have concerns,” he continues. “For you. For the wives and children in the Sokolov bratva. An unstable boss endangers everyone beneath his sigil.”
“Gustav is not a danger to them,” I say carefully. “He’d die for them. You’re misinterpreting—”
“He may have killed a rival boss,” Rupert interrupts lightly. “That is forbidden. Even with a Yellow Card. His bride should know that.”
Inside, I freeze. Outside, I stay poised like a Russian woman as I learned in etiquette class.
He watches me like a hawk studying prey.
“You can deny it. Or you can tell us the truth.”
“I am aware of the rumors,” I say coolly. “But they are simply whispers against a young king.”
For the first time, genuine irritation flashes across his face.
“You are a good wife,” he responds sharply. “I grant you that.” He studies me with mild fascination. “Yellow Card wives often provide the clearest insight to the Council. Close enough to know if a boss is fit to rule, or fit to bury.”
My stomach drops. “What are you suggesting?”
“Your cooperation,” he replies. “If Gustav is mentally unstable, you can spare yourself being dragged down with him. We would take you back to America, place you under Council protection, and end the Sokolov line. No guilt. No blood on your hands. You would be praised.”
He says it as if describing a great honor.
My throat goes dry.
“I can’t betray my husband,” I say simply.
Rupert’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “A loyal wife. Admirable, but doomed.”
He shifts forward. “Let me ask you something, Peighton. What do you believe happens to you if Gustav dies?”
I blink. “I… assume I’d go home. Back to California.”
“Oh, my dear.” His laugh is soft and pitying. “No. You will never return to the Blood Masons. Once you married into the Sokolov Bratva, you ceased belonging to your father’s house.”
My heart stops.
He continues as if giving a lecture. “If Gustav is declared unfit, the Council will eliminate the Sokolov bloodline entirely. Petyr Kov, as second-in-command, will take the bratva. His wife, Keira, will take your place. And you...” His eyes glint.
“Would either die with Gustav… or remarry whomever Petyr selects.”
Cold dread shoots through me.
I never once considered that I wouldn’t go home if my marriage ended in his death. Not stay in Russia or remarry.
Rupert inhales slowly. “You seem shocked. Perhaps you overestimate your importance in this family. Did you think Gustav dying would leave you the queen of a bratva? No. Your safety and title die with him.”
The insult slices clean.
I swallow. Hard.
“I know my role,” I whisper. “I want to help him keep his bratva. His name. His legacy.”
“Then he must stop behaving like a madman.” Rupert’s voice dips. “The Yellow Card lasts one year. Five lives total.”
“I know.”
His gaze cuts into me. “Your husband has already burned through two.”
I jerk upright. “Two? No, he’s only used—”
“One?” Rupert’s eyebrow lifts. “No. He is reckless. Took you as a bride and another life he shouldn’t have. And if he plays his final three badly, you both die. Quickly.”
My chest tightens until it aches. I force myself to breathe.
Rupert continues in a low, almost intimate murmur. “We are watching you both closely. If Gustav breaks a single law, tradition requires we unmake the Sokolov line. Even if the Council must use you as collateral damage.”
“Me?” I echo, throat thick.
“Yes.” He smiles politely. “You.”
I grip the edge of my chair.
He stands and circles behind me.
“Peighton,” he says softly. “I will not wait idly for Gustav to prove himself unworthy. If he falters, I will take action myself. Even if it requires taking you down to get to him.”
I turn slowly.
He studies me with cold expectation. “You are either with the Council or against us. You have one month to choose a side. After that… I will choose for you.”
He slips a small card into my hand, fingers brushing mine with chilling gentleness, then walks away down the shadowed corridor.
The card feels heavier than a coffin lid.
Because now I understand the brutal truth:
If Gustav falls, I fall with him. If he survives, the target is on my back, too.
But there is no world, not one, where I belong to any man but him.
Time is running out.
For both of us.