Chapter 39
Peighton
If I had my way, I would never leave our bed again.
The hallways of St. Andrews feel colder after a morning like that. Every step away from Gustav is a step back into some lesser life.
My body still hums, my pussy sore in a way that makes heat flutter low in my belly.
Every shift of my hips reminds me how deep he was, how anger soon after, how rough his breathing got when he confessed he loved me.
I’m jogging halfway down the corridor before I realize I am smiling like an lovestruck idiot.
Focus, Peighton.
I’m already late.
Micha jogs beside me. My boots thump too loud against the old floor, the sound bouncing off walls lined with framed photographs of dead men who once ruled this world.
I clutch my notebook tighter and quicken my pace, the knot of my ponytail swaying. Ugh. I’m still wearing a dumb toothy smile.
Underneath my glow, though, sits a restless worry.
I hate being away from him. It feels wrong now, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
He went for a walk. I know how fast his mind can shift.
Spirals can happen in seconds. I saw it in the kitchen.
I saw it when he pressed a knife to my throat.
I saw it when the Council watched him twitch and whisper to no one.
And I still left him for class.
Maybe that makes me stupid. Maybe it makes me normal. I am unsure which frightens me more.
I push into the self-defense room just as the instructor claps his hands to call everyone to the mat. I slip off my boots, bow quickly, and fall in line with the others, lungs still catching up.
A couple of the other women nod at me. One of them smirks, clearly recognizing the glow on my face.
They know my madman is on the grounds.
In my bed.
The instructor begins class, but...
The space beside me is empty.
I scan the room. No man with kind dark eyes and dimples. No beard. No teasing half smile apologizing for pinning me to mats in front of a room full of women. Just absence.
My stomach dips.
“Where’s Brutus?” I ask, cutting across the instructor’s directions before I can stop myself.
He hesitates, then glances at me with something almost like pity.
“He will not be joining us today.”
“So he’s sick?” I push, clinging to the easiest explanation.
The instructor breathes out slowly.
“Class. Word came this morning. There was a car accident. Brutus was killed.”
My heart stops. The class collectively gasps.
“What?” I say.
The instructor looks away. “We will honor him at evening prayers. For now, I will partner with Peighton.”
Women shuffle and pair off, their expressions crestfallen. I stare at the space he should occupy and feel something hollow open in my chest.
An accident. This morning.
The echo of Gustav’s voice from earlier slides into my mind, trying to glue itself to the new information.
The way he said Brutus’ name on the phone, the tiny shift in his tone, that flash of something dark and possessive in his eyes when I reassured him I would be faithful. The timing is too close.
No.
I grip my hands into fists.
Did Gustav call someone? Did he give an order?
My chest tightens. I try to breathe through it, to focus on the move. Block. Twist. Strike. My timing is off.
Brutus is dead.
Because of the life I live now. Because of the man I love.
By the time class ends, my eyes burn and my muscles shake from going through the motions on autopilot, and paying for my poor defense efforts. My body is here. My mind is trapped on a roadside that I have never seen.
The corridor outside is narrower than usual, the stone walls closing in around me as footsteps and murmurs echo down the long passage. Micha follows but gives me space. He knows.
“Peighton.”
Keira’s voice finds me before I make it halfway down the hall.
She approaches with her usual grace, dark hair smooth, lips painted in that deep shade that makes her look like a brunette snow queen.
“You heard about Brutus,” she says softly.
I nod. Surprised my voice works, I ask, “How did you know already?”
She pauses, then murmurs, “I was looking for you.”
Anger spikes through the numbness. Yes. It’s true. The picture she took.
“Keira! Were you involved?”
Shock flashes across her expression before she schools it. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” My voice is sharper now. “You took a picture of me and Brutus without my consent. I saw you. Then, he dies in a ‘car accident.’ Do you expect me to believe those things are unrelated?”
Keira glances up and down the corridor, then steps closer, her voice dropping so Micha can’t hear. “Petyr ordered the accident.”
The words land like a punch.
I sway on my feet. “Your husband? Are you actually admitting it?”
“Yes,” she says glumly. “He acted quickly because he saw a threat and wanted to remove it before it grew.”
My mouth is dry with disbelief. “A threat? His threat was me laughing with a man who helped me out of a trunk!”
“Laughing. Letting him touch you. You touching him. Letting him look at you like...” She shakes her head. “Around men like Gustav, that is not nothing, Peighton. That is gasoline.”
It should scare me that she is right about that part, but this is bullshit.
“You should have talked to me,” I say. “Instead you took a harmless picture and showed a man who solves problems by spilling blood.”
She winces and for a moment looks younger, smaller, like the weight of her choices rests heavily on her shoulders.
“I sent it because I thought it would be safer if Petyr handled it before Gustav found out.”
I stare at her. “Safer for who? Brutus is dead. I have blood on my hands I never meant to have. And you want credit for protecting me?”
Keira’s jaw hardens. “I know it looks cruel. But I have watched bratva wives die for less. Gustav is not a subtle man. If he believed you were interested in someone else, I do not know what he would do. I didn’t want to find out.”
The worst part is that I can picture it. Gustav’s fury. His jealousy. My lies.
Still.
“You overstepped,” I hiss quietly. “You are not my handler. You are not my mother. You are not even a friend. You do not get to decide who lives and dies around me.”
“No,” Keira agrees. “But I am the wife of a man in our bratva. I see the bigger picture. Sometimes the choice is ugly, but it is still a choice.” She hesitates, then adds, “Gustav does not know Petyr ordered it. Brutus was a nobody. Petyr wanted to protect you from a much worse outcome, and, he wanted to protect Gustav.”
“From what!”
“From you.” She draws in a deep breath. “Petyr has known Gustav all his life. They are close. He can tell what you mean to Gustav. Being unfaithful will destroy him.”
My heart fractures. He loves me that much.
The idea that Gustav is not the one who pulled this particular string should be a relief. It’s not. It just adds another layer of sickness to the knot in my stomach. My life has become a place where people die for harmless touches or smiling at me.
“I do not trust you now,” I spit.
Something in her eyes flickers. She nods slowly, accepting it like a bruise she feared she would earn. “I am not your enemy, Peighton.”
“You are. You whisper behind my back. You do these things. You are no better than the other women around here who hate me because I’m a foreigner and don’t like your oppressive country.”
She stamps her foot and the words burst free:
“My Lord. If you would take one minute to ask a Russian woman what she thinks, you’d see how oppressive you are being. We have opinions, too. We are not weak. Just because we think more than we talk does make us victims.”
I stammer, having not considered such things.
She continues.
“Take responsibility, Peighton. You behaved inappropriately. Be ashamed and grateful I took action. Your mother’s sins clearly flow in your veins.”
I gasp, my mouth gaping open.
Bootsteps.
Heavy.
Keira’s gaze shifts over my shoulder. Her posture straightens instinctively.
I turn.
Gustav stands framed by the archway like a shadow stepped out of a storm. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he has been running his hands through it. His dark coat hangs open over a black shirt. His eyes sweep over us once, steady and assessing, those storm-gray irises alert.
He walks toward us, curious, his gaze flicking between my face and Keira’s. Confusion creases his brow. There is no twitch yet, no wild shine. Just sharp intelligence and the faint tension of someone who senses a shift but has not yet decided where to aim his suspicion.
“What is this?” he asks, voice low.
Keira goes very still beside me. I feel my own pulse trip into a sprint, my guilt and anger swirling.
Because I know I am standing between a man who kills to protect me and a woman who orders hits to protect him.
And for the first time, I wonder if I did cross a line with Brutus. Am I like my mother? I can’t imagine cheating on Gustav, but—
“Peighton,” he says colder. “What the fuck are you two arguing about? Tell me.”