Chapter 46
Peighton
The first day after waking is a surreal dream. A slow one. A quiet one.
Breakfast feels warmer than before my coma, considering the Russian summer glows at the windows.
Outside the windows, the world is actually green.
Not gray, frozen, or threatening. Slopes of grass ripple in the breeze.
The trees are full and lush, veils of leaves shifting softly instead of clawing the sky with bare branches.
Sunlight glints off the river in the distance.
Birds sing. It looks almost normal. If I squint, I can pretend this is some old European estate and not the headquarters of a Bratva dynasty led by my unhinged husband.
Tyra pours tea. Keira slices fruit with that delicate, elegant precision she always has.
I sit between them, wrapped in one of Gustav’s robes.
It still smells faintly like body wash and the dark cologne he wears.
The scent makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t fully understand yet.
He isn’t here, but somehow he still shadows every part of this room. Like his love endures in his absence.
“Gustav took care of you better than anyone could have expected. He barely slept. He stayed by your bedside every night, watching, waiting, almost daring death to try him.”
I picture him sitting in that stiff chair for hours, his massive frame hunched, broad shoulders curled forward as if protecting something precious.
It’s such a contrast from the man the world sees.
The Mad Butcher, the ruthless heir. To me, he is simply Gustav, the man whose scent clings to my skin and steadies me without meaning to.
“He did,” says Keira. “A good husband, no?”
I nod.
Keira looks tired. More fragile than I remember. I bet the forest attack, those awful men, scarred her for life.
I set down my spoon and speak with compassion in my voice.
“It was horrible in Pripyat. That forest… to be stripped bare in front of so many men—”
She freezes, her face going pale beneath her immaculate makeup. She blinks, then lowers her gaze, as if modesty and memory both strike at once.
Tyra reaches over to squeeze her hand, giving her strength to speak. Slowly, Keira does.
“It was the worst moment of my life,” she says softly. “Humiliating. Terrifying. Their leader… when he touched my body… I thought I would die there.”
My heart cracks. A tear rolls down my cheek.
She dabs her own watery eyes with a napkin.
“Petyr died from his injuries,” she almost whispers. “He bled out in the car.”
“Oh my gosh! I didn’t know,” I reply and pull her into a hug.
She stiffens at first. Russian women don’t show their pain so easily, but she melts a little, and that tiny softening is enough to break my own heart.
“I pray I won’t be forced to remarry,” Keira whispers.
“You won’t,” I assure. “I’ll make sure Gustav gives you the freedom to choose.”
She nods, though something flickers in her eyes that I know she won’t share with me.
After everything I’ve been through, I just have to ask: “Is that why you’ve been so kind to me? Are you simply out of options?”
To my shock, Tyra intervenes.
“Peighton,” she says gently, her mocha fingers clutching my forearm with affection. “I know I told you not to trust Keira, but she helped keep you alive. She cared for you while Gustav nearly lost his mind with worry. She was grieving her husband and still prioritized you.”
That disarms me. I didn’t expect this alliance between them, nor the sincere affection in Tyra’s voice. They both sit here. One Americanized, one fiercely Russian, and somehow they both feel more like family today than my own blood.
Keira clears her throat, smoothing her napkin.
“Yes. I have always tried to show you what it means to be a Russian woman. We are born into a culture where silence is strategy, not weakness. In public, we support our husbands because it strengthens the family. Behind closed doors, we guide them. Advise them. We debate. We agree. We are their stability.”
Tyra snorts. “I still want a New York man who’ll get on his knees for me once in a while.”
I laugh and blush as I say, “Gustav got on his knees for me in the library and loved it.”
She chokes on her tea. Keira’s lips purse tight like she’s fighting a smile. And for a moment, it feels like a real sisterhood. Messy, unlikely, but real.
And yet, in the back of my mind, the cultural divide hovers. American wives expect partnership. Russian wives expect protection. I’m caught in between, straddling both worlds. And I don’t know which one I belong to anymore.
A vibration on the table interrupts my thoughts.
My phone. Dad.
Tyra glances at it.
“Your father never visited,” she murmurs. “We tried to get him here. He refused.”
Her tone isn’t unkind, but the truth slices me open.
I answer the call, heart cold.
He says he was under pressure back home. He says he knew I was safe. He says a dozen excuses, all thinner than the snow outside.
“Dad,” I say quietly, “it was months. You didn’t visit for months.”
Silence. Then he mutters something defensive about believing Gustav would handle it, something about trusting the system. Work being busy. Excuses dressed as reassurance.
And suddenly, the difference between American fatherhood and Russian husbandhood hits me harder than anything Keira said.
My father left me to fend for myself across an ocean. Gustav didn’t leave my bedside for months.
“Peighton,” my father says, “Lil one, let’s not do this today.”
I swallow hard. “You’re right. Let’s not.”
I hang up first.
Keira and Tyra exchange a look, but neither intrudes. They understand Russian-style restraint and American-style confrontation equally well now. The contrast isn’t lost on me. My own culture feels foreign. This culture is rough, sharp-edged, but steady.
A strange prickle grazes the back of my neck. Something unsettled and unfinished. I glance at my phone. Nothing but the call log. But the unease remains, creeping under my skin.