Chapter 40
Peighton
Gustav’s question still hangs in the air when Keira moves first.
She steps slightly forward, crossing one arm over her waist in a posture so casual and feminine that it makes her look almost bored.
Then, with a perfectly timed sigh, she says, “We were debating something stupid. Whether women should age gracefully or get injections like Americans do often.”
Her tone is so light, so dismissive, that it almost sounds believable.
Almost.
I shoot her a quick glare, but she lifts one brow in a silent command: roll with it.
My heart is still racing from the confrontation, but I force myself to inhale. “I think women have the right to age however they want. Botox is normal where I’m from. It’s not… immoral.”
Keira scoffs dramatically and tosses her hair. “And I was explaining she is wrong.”
Then she waves a hand and turns away, muttering something about “face-freezing witches” as she sashays off down the corridor.
She plays her role well. Maybe too well.
Gustav’s posture loosens. He accepts it. Thank God.
His attention shifts back to me, and all the air leaves my chest when his arms suddenly circle my body, pulling me flush against his tall, hard body. He lowers his mouth to my ear, breath warm and intimate.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
Those three words detonate inside me like fireworks. Soft. Warm. Uncontrolled. My palms slide up his back. I lean into him, cheek brushing the hard line of his chest, letting myself shiver when he presses a small kiss beneath my ear.
For one suspended moment, nothing exists but him.
Then he pulls back enough to look at me.
“We are leaving St. Andrews.”
“Leaving?” My voice cracks. “Why?”
His jaw tightens with purpose. “I have a meeting in Ukraine. Missile and guns negotiations. You will come.”
“Now?”
“Da.” His thumb strokes my hip. “Not a long trip.”
I nod, my stomach twisting with nerves, excitement, and dread.
Tyra meets me in my dorm room as I zip my bag. She’s reluctant when she hears the news. “Your guy-friend died and now he’s taking you out of town? Peighton, watch that woman.” She jerks her chin at the hallway. “Keira is not your friend. Not after what happened with Brutus.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
“No. You doubt yourself too much. She is dangerous. Petyr is worse. Be smart.”
I hug her tightly. “I’ll be okay.”
She hugs me back, breath shaky. “I’m flying home. Call me. Or text. Or something. Don’t disappear.”
I promise I won’t.
She gives me one more searching look, then leaves with her suitcase, and I suddenly feel very alone.
Moments later, Gustav appears with Micha. He takes my bag from my hand without a word. His touch is firm.
We load into a black SUV. Keira and Petyr settle into the vehicle with us.
The farther we drive, the more the world changes. Forests stretch endlessly, pale and frozen. Abandoned towns appear like ghostly silhouettes. Signs in Russian and Ukrainian flash past. The clouds are a mottled gray, heavy with secrets.
Hours later, the trees thin enough for me to recognize something strange.
The landscape looks different.
Wilder.
“Is this…” I press a hand to the window. “Is this that nuclear disaster place?”
Gustav, who has been silent and brooding for most of the drive, finally answers. “Da. The Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.”
I exhale softly. “Nobody lives there?”
He snorts. “Incorrect. A few. In fact, a new bratva faction lives in there.”
I whip toward him. “Really? Why?”
“Because nobody wants to poison themselves with radiation. They hide in plain sight. In Pripyat. They don’t care. They enjoy their… practices.” His tone shifts subtly, a cold disdain beneath it. “Even I find them sick.”
The memory of the blond boy crucified in Gustav’s castle flashes behind my eyes. My stomach knots.
If Gustav calls them sick…
What the hell are they doing?
A chill creeps through me.
Keira, from the front car, rolls down her window and leans out. “They’re wildlings. Human strays,” she calls. “Pray you never meet one.”
The wind slams her words back into the cabin.
I sit very still for the rest of the drive.
When we finally reach our destination, civilization hits like a slap. Lights. Motion. Cars honking. Buildings stretching skyward. It feels alive in a way the frozen monastery never did.
And Gustav… changes.
The moment he steps out of the car, he straightens his jacket. His shoulders go wide. His chin lifts. His posture shifts into something regal. Someone carved for command. The madness is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but he looks polished. Controlled. Charismatic.
And he keeps touching me.
His hand slides around my waist. He kisses my cheek before we enter the building. His fingers rest on my thigh under the table when we sit.
Every gesture is possessive.
Every one steadies him.
He uses me, and I like it.
Also, I realize I’m seeing him the way his world sees him: not just mad, but powerful. Strategic. A force.
The weapons negotiations go flawlessly. Gustav’s voice is firm. His logic ruthless. He turns opponents into allies with a mix of intimidation and charm. Men laugh at his jokes. They toast to him. They clap his back.
I watch, stunned, as he transforms into a true mob boss.
He trades two of his remaining Yellow Card lives to the Morozovs in exchange for weapons and a ceasefire. Not mercy, but leverage.
It’s a brutal price, but it’s brilliant. The feud ends instantly. So does any investigation into Gustav killing a rival boss.
Even the Council can’t dispute it. Using his lives as currency in a binding deal with a rival faction isn’t recklessness. It’s proof he understands power.
All the while, he makes sure my hand never leaves his body. He likes my palm on his leg. If I move it, he expects it to return once idle, or he’ll return it for me.
When the final handshake is given, they celebrate the way they always seem to: vodka, laughter, noise. The banquet hall glows with chandeliers and gold trim. Music plays. Glasses clink. Men argue about politics like they’re discussing weather. Women in expensive dresses mingle near marble pillars.
Gustav leaves my side to speak with someone.
My attention drifts. I’m still glowing. Still floating.
And then I see her.
A woman across the room. Blonde hair in soft Hollywood curls. Skin-tight gold dress clinging to curves like she was poured into it. She is… stunning. Intimidatingly gorgeous. Effortless.
And she is watching Gustav.
Heat prickles under my skin.
Keira quietly steps beside me, wineglass in hand. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
We both watch.
The blonde glides through the crowd. A silk cat in stilettos. She touches Gustav’s hand lightly, as if to say hello. He doesn’t react — at first. She says something that makes him chuckle. Other men gather, blocking my view. I scowl and try to angle around.
Keira’s fingers wrap around my wrist. A silent, sharp command.
Wait.
My pulse pounds. I obey, but only because she hasn’t been wrong in her guidance.
Keira’s grip tightens.
Finally, the crowd shifts.
The blonde leans in closer. Way too close. Her breasts brush Gustav’s suit jacket. Her mouth grazes his ear as she whispers something. He goes still.
Then paler.
His jaw tightens. A twitch snaps under his eye.
And then his gaze lifts and finds mine.
Everything inside me freezes.
He looks at me like a drowning man finding oxygen. Like he is seconds from unraveling. Like I am the only thing keeping him upright.
The blonde is still talking.
But Gustav is no longer listening to her. He’s hearing something that isn’t there.
And I glance around, deeply concerned my husband is about to erupt in a room full of bosses.