She smiles in a way that feels like warmth breaking through fog. “This is your family now. We take care of our own in the Krovavyye Vorony bratva.”
“Thewhat?”
“Krovavyye Vorony means blood ravens. The Sokolov line. Our bratva is known by either name.”
A vision flashes of black feathers floating outside the tower window.
I shrug it off fast.
Instead, I step toward her.
Keira opens her arms, and we hug, an unexpected comfort in a cold, unfamiliar world. Her coat smells like cedar and perfume. She holds me with the brief, decisive squeeze of someone who both sympathizes and prepares.
When she pulls back, she rests her hands lightly on my arms.
“Welcome to the Sokolovs, Peighton,” she says. “You’ll need strength. But you won’t be alone.”
I smile, but ask a more pressing question.
“Keira... tonight, am I expected to sleep with him?”
She flushes beet red.
“Russia is different… but notthatdifferent.” She exhales and adds, “Yes.”
Chapter 11
Peighton
My mother should be here. My father.
Instead, I walk with a frail man, Dmitri, down a stone corridor lined with warm strings of lights. The castle feels more like a cathedral tonight. A place where vows feel holy and binding only in my world.
The mafia.
Or in Russia,bratvais how I should say it.
I step into the giant hall and stop breathing.
The space is packed with hundreds of faces. The moment I cross the threshold, the room inhales a slow, unified breath that feels ancient, as if the Sokolov line itself has been waiting just for me.
Gustav stands at the altar in a black tuxedo. He looks carved from stone. His hair slicked back perfectly. His broad shouldersfilling the suit in a way that makes something flutter inside me. His storm-gray eyes lift to mine.
He is breathtaking. Dangerously alluring. Beautiful in a way that should not be possible for someone so cruel.
My stomach flips just from the gravity of what I am about to do.
I walk toward him, the candles flickering with each step.
Bratva men and their wives stand in silent rows. Their gazes are heavy. Curious. Most are cold. I feel all of their eyes, but I focus on only one man.
Gustav.
He watches every move I make. Every sway of the dress. Every shift of my eyes.
A few of the older men lower their heads slightly as I pass. Not at Gustav. At me.
When I reach him, he does not speak. The officiant begins speaking in Russian. I don’t understand a word.
