“I keep my promises. I will always protect you, Peighton.”
My breath stutters. Because I realize something deadly. Something terrifying.
He risked his life for me. He broke council law for me. He just executed a rival boss for me.
And now the Council will come for him.
He steps closer, lowering his rifle. His voice softens with the weight of a decision already made.
“We’ll marry tomorrow so nobody else can claim you. I don’t track every card or obscure law. I won’t risk it.”
“But the Blood Masons, my family won’t have time to change their flights and—”
“You have a new family that will be there.”
I shiver. Because the real problem is not the wedding. Not the ring. Not even that my family won’t attend.
It’s that I am mad.
My father handed me over to a stranger without hesitation. Yet Gustav didn’t hand me to anyone.
I’m standing in a room full of dead men, realizing the man I am promised to sacrificed himself.
And he did it for me.
I like it.
No.
Iloveit.
Chapter 10
Peighton
The simple blue dress lies at the bottom of my suitcase, wrinkled and unimpressive.
I never meant to wear it on my wedding day. It was supposed to be a backup, something plain and forgettable for travel, not the dress I’d be bound in when I said vows to a man I’ve never met.
But with the wedding moved up and no time to have anything else brought in, I’m out of choices. I hold the dress up to the mirror. It sways slightly in the draft, looking more like something worn to a courthouse than the altar of a Russian dynasty.
A sharp sound snaps through the silence.
It’s faint, like a door closing somewhere deep inside the stone belly of the castle.
I tense, listening.
Another sound follows, a muted thump, as if someone dropped something heavy on wood. I step into the hallway, drawn by instinct more than sense. The corridor stretches out in both directions, quiet and dim.
Another sound comes from the far end, past the servant stairwell, near a massive wooden door I’ve never noticed before. The thing looks older than the rest of the castle, its planks thick, blackened, and bolted with iron. Dust coats the handle as though untouched for decades.
Still, something inside me whispers to check.
I try the handle. Locked.
I tug harder. It doesn’t budge.
I turn back, blaming my nerves. A sudden whine of iron hinges cuts through the quiet. I spin around.
