My mouth is dry with disbelief. “A threat? His threat was me laughing with a man who helped me out of a trunk!”
“Laughing. Letting him touch you. You touching him. Letting him look at you like...” She shakes her head. “Around men like Gustav, that isnotnothing, Peighton. That is gasoline.”
It should scare me that she is right about that part, but this is bullshit.
“You should have talked to me,” I say. “Instead you took a harmless picture and showed a man who solves problems by spilling blood.”
She winces and for a moment looks younger, smaller, like the weight of her choices rests heavily on her shoulders.
“I sent it because I thought it would be safer if Petyr handled it before Gustav found out.”
I stare at her. “Safer for who? Brutus is dead. I have blood on my hands I never meant to have. And you want credit for protecting me?”
Keira’s jaw hardens. “I know it looks cruel. But I have watched bratva wives die for less. Gustav is not a subtle man. If he believed you were interested in someone else, I do not know what he would do. I didn’t want to find out.”
The worst part is that I can picture it. Gustav’s fury. His jealousy. My lies.
Still.
“You overstepped,” I hiss quietly. “You are not my handler. You are not my mother. You are not even a friend. You do not get to decide who lives and dies around me.”
“No,” Keira agrees. “But I am the wife of a man in our bratva. I see the bigger picture. Sometimes the choice is ugly, but it is still a choice.” She hesitates, then adds, “Gustav does not know Petyr ordered it. Brutus was a nobody. Petyr wanted to protect you from a much worse outcome, and, he wanted to protect Gustav.”
“From what!”
“From you.” She draws in a deep breath. “Petyr has known Gustav all his life. They are close. He can tell what you mean to Gustav. Being unfaithful will destroy him.”
My heart fractures. He loves me that much.
The idea that Gustav is not the one who pulled this particular string should be a relief. It’s not. It just adds another layer ofsickness to the knot in my stomach. My life has become a place where people die for harmless touches or smiling at me.
“I donottrust you now,” I spit.
Something in her eyes flickers. She nods slowly, accepting it like a bruise she feared she would earn. “I am not your enemy, Peighton.”
“You are. You whisper behind my back. You do these things. You are no better than the other women around here who hate me because I’m a foreigner and don’t like your oppressive country.”
She stamps her foot and the words burst free:
“My Lord. If you would take one minute to ask a Russian woman what she thinks, you’d see how oppressive you are being. We have opinions, too. We are not weak. Just because we think more than we talk does make us victims.”
I stammer, having not considered such things.
She continues.
“Take responsibility, Peighton. You behaved inappropriately. Be ashamed and grateful I took action. Your mother’s sins clearly flow in your veins.”
I gasp, my mouth gaping open.
Bootsteps.
Heavy.
Keira’s gaze shifts over my shoulder. Her posture straightens instinctively.
I turn.
Gustav stands framed by the archway like a shadow stepped out of a storm. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he has been running his hands through it. His dark coat hangs open over a black shirt. His eyes sweep over us once, steady and assessing, those storm-gray irises alert.
