When it’s done, I lift the injector and set it aside. She collapses into the mattress, shaking uncontrollably.
I stroke her wet cheek again, smearing the tear across her skin with my thumb.
“Now no one can steal you,” I say softly.
“I’m not a possession.” She whimpers and curls into herself. Her hair sticks to her damp cheeks. Her breathing is uneven and small.
I stand and move toward the door, watching her struggle to pull the comforter back over her trembling body.
“Sleep well, devushka,” I tell her.
She groans, followed by a faint sob into the blanket.
I pause at the doorway.
Another whisper invades my skull. My father.
Kill her before she infects you.
I snarl, murmuring under my breath, “Not now. Stick to the plan.”
His voice fades.
My gaze stays fixed on the woman. Her lashes wet with tears and long against her cheeks. Her lips twitch as she is about to speak.
And her scent... sweet, warm, a little floral, lingers in the air. I swallow against the sudden urge to smother the beauty who shouldn’t be here but resist and indulge in my default ways.
“Get used to me. This is how I love,” I say, and shut the door behind me.
It’s a lie.
I don’t love.
Another voice. Mother.
Be nice, Gustav. I chose her for you.
Chapter 7
Gustav
The guards drag Peighton into the sunroom at exactly eight in the morning, just as I instructed. She fights them the entire way. She is small enough that it should be nothing, yet her fury fills the corridor long before her body reaches the door.
When they shove her inside, she is breathless, wild-eyed, and shaking with rage.
She looks different in the morning light. Her cheeks flushed darker. Her hair pulled into a messy knot that makes the slope of her neck more chokeable. Her brown eyes flash with heat and pain, and satisfaction fills my chest.
The dark voice hums.
She hates you. Good. Hate is respect for your power.
But the way she looks at me is not only hate. It is defiance. Defying her boss or husband is forbidden in this world. Suchfire. Life. I should extinguish it. Instead, I watch it burn with curiosity as I murmur, “Hello, devushka.”
She snaps, “Do you attack all your house guests and jam needles in them?”
“Only you,” I answer. “Sit.”
She glares as if I am the source of every misfortune in her life, which is accurate. I recline at the glass table, barefoot, sweatpants, shirtless, drinking coffee and reading morning intelligence. The winter light fills the room and turns everything pale gold. It softens nothing about her. Her fear still clings to her skin like frost.
