He is exactly where I expect him to be.
Gustav sits in a leather armchair beneath the tallest window, phone to his ear, forearm resting on one knee. Light pours over him, catching on the sharp line of his jaw. He has that stillness he gets when he is focused, a predator at rest. His shoulders fill the jacket he has not bothered to button. The angle of his mouth is severe. His voice in Russian is low and steady, a language of command and threat I still only partially understand.
He glances up as I enter, and his gaze softens a fraction. Just a fraction, but I see it. The line between his brows eases.
He ends the call and tucks the phone into his pocket.
“Devushka,” he says. “You should be resting.”
“I rest plenty,” I answer, walking closer. “We need to talk.”
That gets his full attention. He sits back, considering me with those storm gray eyes that see far too much. “You say this like a bomb is under my chair,” he says.
Maybe there is.
“Can we sit?” I ask. “Both of us.”
He gestures to the opposite chair. “Of course.”
I sink into it, trying to ignore the way my pulse hammers. My palms feel damp. He notices everything. He will notice that too.
His gaze flicks to my belly. “Is the baby alright?”
“Yes.” That part is easy. “The baby is fine. I’m fine. This is about something else.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He steeples his fingers, elbows on the arms of the chair. “Then say it.”
“A Councilman, Rupert, has been contacting me.” The words scrape coming out. “Since St. Andrews.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I feel the air shift.
“He ambushed me during class,” I go on. “Pulled me out through a back exit. He said the Council was worried you might be… unstable. That you might have killed a rival boss. He offered me protection if I confirmed you were unfit to lead. He said I could go back to America if I helped them remove you.”
Silence fills the library like cold air. The ticking clock sounds louder. Somewhere in the hall, a door closes.
“I did not agree,” I say quickly. “I told him you were doing well. I lied for you. I lied to him instead of you. And I did not tell you because at the time… you were unwell. I was afraid of what the stress might do to you.”
He watches me like a hawk watching for movement in the grass. His mouth is a flat line.
“But you tell me now,” he says. “Why?”
“Because hiding it feels wrong,” I answer. “Because I don’t want to be like my father. Because if the Council is after you, it is after me and our child too. And because no matter what anyone says, I choose you. Every time. Even when it’s hard. Even when you scare me. I’m on your side.”
His eyes search my face as if he is trying to peel away layers and see whether the words match what’s underneath. The stillness stretches.
“Is there anything else you have kept from me?” he asks, his voice calm.
Brutus flashes through my mind like a ghost. His easy smile. The way he helped me up off the mat. The way Keira took thatphoto. I never slept with him. Never touched him beyond class. Bringing him up now will not help anyone. He’s dead.
So I swallow and say, “No. That was the only thing I hid.”
My heart pounds as soon as the words leave my mouth. Technically true. Emotionally slippery. Still the type of honesty that cleanses everything.
Gustav leans back, eyes half lidded, and says, “I already know about Rupert.”
I blink. “You… do?”
“Of course. Rupert has been a pest for years,” he says. “That boy you saw on the cross when you first came here? Rupert’s younger brother. The second life I used on the Yellow Card.”
