Chapter 49
Gustav
Voices awaken me before dawn.
They do not scream this time. They whisper. Thin little threads of sound pulling at the back of my skull, weaving into my thoughts until I cannot tell where they end and I begin. I lie there listening, chest tight, eyes open to the dim ceiling beams above our bed.
She is beside me, curled around my arm. Peighton sleeps on her side with one hand under her cheek, the other draped over the gentle swell of her stomach. Her hair spills across the sheet in dark waves. Her lips are slightly parted. She looks peaceful.
Her confession from earlier sits like a stone in my chest. Rupert. Messages. Secrets buried under good intentions. She said she chose me. She said she would always choose me. Yet shame gleamed in her eyes like oil over water. Shame feeds the voices. Shame wakes them.
You do not know. Women lie. She lies. They always lie.
I realize I am no longer in our bed.
My bare feet press against cold stone. I am already downstairs, pacing the length of the corridor, the old castle still around me.
I do not remember getting up. My hands are clasped behind my back, shoulders rigid.
I have done this before, walked these halls in the dark, trying to outrun the noise in my head.
“Gustav…”
The sound is barely there, soft as breath. A woman’s whisper curls out of the shadows at the far end of the corridor, where the tower door waits.
My lungs seize.
I turn my head slowly. The heavy wooden door that should be locked, bolted from the outside, stands dark and quiet. The whisper comes again, closer. Inside my bones.
“Gustav. Come.”
My hand lifts before I decide to move. Fingers close around the iron latch. The lock clicks on its own. The door swings inward with a long, familiar creak, as if the tower has been waiting for me.
Of course it has.
I step inside and the air changes. Older.
Colder. Dust and ghosts. The spiral staircase climbs into darkness, each stone step worn by centuries of feet and my own countless visits.
I begin to climb. By the third turn, the whispers have settled into a chorus.
By the fifth, everything inside me has gone quiet, as if I am walking into church.
At the top, the door to her room is slightly open.
I push it with my fingertips.
The old bedroom looks almost gentle in the firelight. Flames crackle in the hearth, a soft orange glow licking at old stones and worn rugs. The scent of lavender hangs in the air, faint but unmistakable, as if the past never left.
She is sitting in her armchair by the fire.
Sophia.
Young. Beautiful. As she was before madness and time hollowed her out. Dark hair glossy and loose around her shoulders, eyes the same pale wolf-gray as mine, only softer. Her lips curve in a serene smile when she sees me, and the boy buried deep inside my ribcage shudders awake.
“Mother,” I say.
My voice comes out hoarse. Small.
“My son,” she answers, her tone warm and pleased. “You came.”
I cross the room as if drawn on a chain. The floorboards do not creak the way they should. The air feels too light. Too still. I stop in front of her chair, my heart beating hard enough to shake my chest.
She stands with slow elegance, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her legs. She lifts her hand and places her palm flat over my sternum. Heat sinks through my shirt and into my skin. The touch is soothing and suffocating at once.
“You have been good,” she murmurs. “You have done so well. I am pleased with you.”
The praise cuts deeper than any scolding. I swallow hard. My shoulders loosen against my will.
“You married the girl I chose,” she continues. “Pretty little Peighton. The American with the soft eyes. And you have gotten her pregnant. Just as I wanted.”
Something sharp twists in my gut.
“I did not do it for you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her brows lift delicately. The voices hiss at my disobedience.
“I did it for her,” I force out. “Because I love her. Because I want her to carry my child. If I lose my mind, she will stay if she has my blood, our children. She will not leave me for another man.”
The last words scrape my throat raw. Saying them aloud makes the fear real. Makes the possibility real.
Mother’s gaze flicks toward the window, then back to my face. Her eyes are sharper now. Hungrier.
“Another man,” she repeats calmly. “Do you mean Brutus?”
The name slices through me.
My knees snap as if someone kicked them from behind. I drop, palms slapping the rug, breath knocked from my lungs. Pain flares behind my ribs. The idea is poison, ridiculous, yet it blooms instantly. A seed of horror. Of doubt.
“No,” I rasp. “No. He is dead. He never touched her. He never—”
“Is the child yours?” she asks.
The room tilts. My vision narrows to a pinpoint. The voices roar with laughter, with accusations. Images flash: Peighton smiling at another man, leaning too close, saying his name in a soft voice. Brutus, Boris, it does not matter. A blur of male faces with their eyes on what is mine.
My hand clutches at my chest over her palm. I cannot breathe. My heart feels like it is trying to claw its way out.
Mother moves with slow, careful grace. She sinks to her knees in front of me and guides my head to her thigh, her fingers combing through my hair. I clutch at the hem of her nightgown like a child frightened of the dark.
“Do not worry, my darling,” she croons, stroking my head. “It is your child. Of course it is yours. You are the only one who matters.”
I want to believe her so badly I could rip my own heart out as proof.
“It is mine,” I say through clenched teeth. “My wife carries my child. My blood. Nobody else’s.”
“Good boy,” she whispers.
The praise sinks into that old, hollow place inside me. For a moment, there is only her touch and the crackle of the fire.
I blink.
She is gone.
The chair is empty. The air is cold. The lavender scent is fading.
I am alone on the floor of an empty room, on my knees like a madman praying to a god that never answers.
I push to my feet and stagger out of the tower. The staircase spins for a second, then steadies. By the time I reach the corridor, light has changed. Gray dawn has softened into a paler, warmer color. Morning.
I move quickly through the halls toward our bedroom.
The door is open. Sunlight spills across the rug. Peighton stands in the middle of the room, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand cradling her belly, her hair a messy halo around her face.
Her voice shakes. Anger. Hurt.
“You were a shitty father,” she hisses, pacing at the foot of the bed. “Just admit it. Admit you had her killed. Admit you had mom killed.”
I move closer, silent.
On the other end, her father’s voice is a faint rumble I cannot make out. Whatever he says next makes the blood drain from her face.
“What?” she whispers.
Her fingers tighten around the phone. Her shoulders go rigid. She sucks in a sharp breath, listening. Her eyes go wide. Whatever he repeats finishes breaking something in her. The color leaches from her lips.
The phone slips from her hand and bounces once on the rug.
She sways.
“Peighton,” I say.
She does not hear.
Her knees buckle and she crumples, her body folding in on itself in slow motion. I lunge and catch her before her head hits the floor. Her weight is heavy and limp in my arms, her limbs unresponsive.
“Peighton, hey,” I murmur, shaking her. “Look at me. Devushka. Open your eyes.”
Her head lolls against my shoulder. She does not respond.
Something wet spreads beneath my hand where her nightdress has ridden up over her thighs. I look down.
Blood.
It stains the delicate fabric. Slides warm between her legs. A thin, horrible river of red against her warm skin.
For a heartbeat, everything stops.
Then the world slams back into motion.
“No,” I breathe. “No. No.”
The voices erupt, a hurricane in my skull.
You will lose her. This is what happens when you love.
I roar at them and at the room and at fate itself.
“Help!” My shout bounces off stone. “Now! Get in here!”
Footsteps explode somewhere in the corridor. Doors slam open. Shouts answer mine. I barely hear them. All my focus is on her. Her too-still face, her fluttering pulse, the fragile curve of her abdomen.
I lift her carefully, cradling her against my chest. Her head drops against my shoulder, hair spilling over my arm. Her hand, with its wedding ring, lies limp against my forearm.
“Stay with me,” I whisper against her temple as I carry her toward the door. My throat feels raw. “Do you hear me? Stay. You are mine. You are not allowed to leave.”