I stand frozen in the gray, hollow castle, struggling to breathe.
I am in the wolf’s den.
And the wolf has already clawed at my throat.
Chapter 4
Peighton
The dining room is creepy.
A long gothic hall stretches out before me. Vaulted stone ceiling, flickering candles dripping wax down iron sconces, shadows clinging to every corner like they’re hiding the dead. The table itself is absurdly long, polished dark wood that gleams even in the dim light.
Gustav sits at one end. I’m expected at the other based on the only open chair.
The distance between us feels... intentional. Perhaps a warning. A throne room set for a tyrant and the girl he intends to scare.
He’s already eating.
Rude.
His attention is fixed on his phone, its glow highlighting his flawless features. He holds it loose in his hand, thumb idly scrolling. Completely relaxed.
I tug both jackets tighter around me as I approach. Underneath is a hoodie over a sweater. Baggy sweatpants. Two pairs. No curves or skin showing.
The opposite of what he demanded, and that makes me silently proud of myself.
As I walk past him, I feel his attention snap upward.
He looks from under his brow. No tilt of the head. No real movement. Just his eyes rising, electric and sharp as a blade.
I try not to look too long, but my traitorous head remains turned over my shoulder.
He smirks.
That wicked, knowing smirk.
A sound rumbles in his chest, half chuckle, half growl.
“Moy drozhashchiy sluga,” he murmurs.
The foreign words slither over my skin.
I blink. “What does that mean?”
His grin widens, slow and sinful.
“A trembling thrall,” he answers casually. “My pathetic little servant.”
My jaw drops. “Are you insane? That’s — wow. Then you’re... Satan.”
He gasps dramatically, hand to his chest, as if my insult pierced him.
Then he bows his head slightly. “Thank you.”
A tiny glint lights his eyes, like he genuinely enjoys being called that. The oddness is almost... charismatic.
Before I can come up with a comeback, a harsh cough cracks through the silence.
