Chapter 51
Peighton
Russia in summer really does look like a different country. I stand at the window, thumbing the silver locket Gustav gave me. My daughter’s weight is warm and solid in my arm.
We’re healthy, yet I strain not to cry.
I should be happy. I’m alive. She’s alive. We made it.
But every time I think that, something tightens in my chest.
Because I can feel it. Gustav is slipping.
I adjust little Vera against my shoulder and sway gently, listening to her soft breaths.
She is so small that even weeks later it still scares me.
Little fist curled under her cheek. Jet black hair shiny like her father’s.
Sometimes her eyes open and I swear they look storm gray, too.
Other times they are newborn dark, and I tell myself I imagined the rest.
I want to believe this is my life. To protect her. Build a family that is better than the one I came from. But my thoughts circle back like vultures. My dad. My mom. Lies. Secrets. And now the way Gustav leaves our bed at night, pacing through the halls, whispering to someone who is not there.
I rub my cheek against Vera’s hair and look higher, past the treeline, up to the roofline and chimneys.
Ravens.
When there was just one on the windowsill after she was born, it felt odd, but almost symbolic. A Sokolov baby. A Raven’s child. Cute, in a creepy kind of way.
Now there are dozens.
Perched along the roof ridges. Swaying in the nearest trees. Hopping on the stone ledge outside the windows, tilting their heads and staring in with black, intelligent eyes. Every day there are more. Every day they watch us like they know something I do not.
Ever since I heard Gustav whisper to the first one…
I pull Vera closer, pressing a kiss to her soft, warm temple.
She latches again, nursing greedily, and some of the dread eases.
This part is simple. Skin against skin. Tiny hand curling against my breast. The way her whole body relaxes when she gets what she needs from me.
No politics. No cards. No councils. Just a baby who does not care that her father might be losing his mind.
Footsteps sound in the corridor. My heart squeezes.
My father steps into the room.
I gasp.
He looks smaller than I remember. Or maybe it is just that I feel bigger, stretched by motherhood.
His dark hair is more gray at the temples.
His suit fits perfectly, as always. He takes in the nursery at a glance.
The cradle. The rocking chair. The faint sound of Keira humming down the hall.
Finally his gaze lands on me and my daughter.
He does not say hi. He walks straight to us like I am just a doorway to the real reason he came.
“Lil one! Let me see her,” he says, voice jubilant.
Anger flares, fast and hot. I swallow it, because Vera is against my chest and she doesn’t deserve tension in the air around her.
“Keira,” I call, forcing my voice steady. “Can you take her for a bit?”
Keira appears almost instantly, like she has been hovering just outside on purpose. She moves with her usual grace, dark hair pinned perfectly, posture elegant even in something as simple as a house dress. She smiles at my father politely, then bends to me.
I pass Vera into her arms. She holds my baby like she is made of glass and slips out, humming again in Russian under her breath.
As soon as the door closes behind her, my smile falls away.
“Outside,” I say. “Garden. Now.”
My father raises a brow but follows me as I stalk through the hallways and out into the courtyard. The summer air is warm, scented with sun-warmed stone and flowers. The roses along the side path are in full bloom, red and white and almost obscene in their beauty.
I spin on him as soon as we step by the fountain.
“I cannot believe you,” I say.
His mouth tightens. “Peighton.”
“The phone call,” I snap. “You finally admit you killed Mom and you think I’d see you again?
” My voice rises. I force it back down, conscious of open windows and the chance of guards within earshot.
“Do you have any idea what that did to me? I went into labor early. Early. You hurt me so hard our daughter almost didn’t make it into the world. ”
He flinches at the word daughter, like he forgot that part.
“I did not want to come here,” he says quietly. “This castle. Russia. I swore I would never set foot on this land again.”
The word hits hard. Again.
I fold my arms. “What?”
“I have been here before,” he says. “Years ago. Before you knew any of this existed. Before Gustav was the Mad King. Before his father died. Before his father fucked my wife.”
Cold slides down my spine. “Gustav’s dad… slept with—”
“Yes. Magnus Sokolov and your mother had a years-long affair.”
“And you came here,” I say slowly, “to kill him.”
“You are your father’s daughter,” he mutters. “Yes. I came to kill Magnus.”
The world narrows to his face and the words leaving his mouth. The garden falls away. The sound of distant ravens becomes a dull roar.
I sway, grabbing the stone fountain for balance. “No... how did they meet?”
“A weapons deal.” His voice is dull. Flat.
Like he has stripped it of all emotion just to get through the story.
“I found letters. At first I thought they were just business messages. Talk about imports, routes, small talk. Then they got worse. More personal. Then your mother started disappearing for weekends. Girlfriend trips, spa days, extended visits with relatives. I followed one of her flights. It led me here.”
He gestures at the castle.
“I arrived furious. Hurt. I expected a fight with Magnus. Maybe a negotiation. Maybe a duel on neutral ground. Instead, I met his wife first. Sophia.”
Sophia. The name I have only heard in whispers.
“She was beautiful,” my father says. “Young. Poised. Too composed for what I was about to tell her. I was so angry I didn’t care. I told her everything. The letters. The trips. The affair.”
My stomach turns. “What did she do?”
“Nothing at first,” he says. “She went very still. Then she asked where Magnus was. We found him in the foyer. I remember the exact spot. He was coming in from outside, coat over his arm. He saw us together and knew immediately what had happened. He denied it of course. Said your mother was obsessed. Said it wasn’t serious.
I could tell he was lying. So could she. ”
My father’s gaze slides to the main entrance, like he can see the ghosts of that day playing out in front of it.
“She pulled a gun,” he says. “I thought she was going to shoot me. Instead she walked right up to her husband and put a bullet between the eyes.”
My breath leaves my body.
“She shot him?” I whisper. “In front of you?”
“Yes,” he says. “And then she just stood there over his body, staring down like she could not understand what she’d done.
I heard footsteps. I realized Gustav was coming in.
I tried to warn her. I said his name. She didn’t move.
She was frozen, like a statue. I had a choice.
Stay and get caught up in that mess, or leave and let her deal with the consequences.
The guards were already coming. She didn’t stop me.
I left the country that night. Later I heard she lost her mind. ”
I picture it. A young man walking in, seeing his father dead on the floor, his mother holding the smoking gun. The sound of ravens outside. Blood on the polished stone.
I want to vomit.
“And Janice?” My voice cracks. “What did you do to my mom?”
He takes a shaky breath and meets my eyes. For once, he doesn’t look like a mob boss. He looks like a guilty man.