Like a madwoman, she rubs her thumb over my cheekbone, tender, unguarded. As if she has any right to touch me. Yet, her warmth spreads across my skin, challenging every defense I have.
Fucking strangle her, Gustav.
The voice is deep and loud. My father.
My molars press down so hard they nearly crack. I thump the side of my head, fast, eyes snapped shut, trying to turn-off the bastard’s nagging.
My wrist is snatched, stopping my blows and ripping me from the dark spiral.
A new voice.
Hers.
“Don’t do that.”
She holds my hand down and searches the room quick but subtly, as if she is trying to shield me from onlookers. Like I’d care. I don’t. But her response is what a good wife would do: Calm her husband, and guard him from social scrutiny.
I stare down at her, transfixed by the unfamiliar act of selflessness she’s committing.
“We should wait,” she then whispers, cheeks pink. “To sleep in the same bed. Till you feel better.”
The words slice through me.
Wait.
To claim her.
To take what’s mine.
Her eyes watch my face, nervous but sincere, unaware of the battle raging inside me.
She has no idea how close she stands to a man who is near erupting into chaos.
She has no idea how much I want her tonight, yet don’t know in what way.
My hand slips to the small of her back, drawing her close. I murmur in her ear:
“No. You will be in my bed. Tonight.”
Chapter 13
Peighton
Russian receptions last forever.
For hours, I am passed from one guest to another. Some compliment my dress, others bless our marriage with quick, reverent Russian phrases. I didn’t lie to Gustav. His people speak highly of him.
But not in a soft, affectionate way.
More like they worship a storm.
I notice the subtle patterns. The sideways glances when his name is mentioned. The way conversations tighten when he crosses the room. The quiet relief when he is out of earshot. Gustav rules with a mix of charisma and fear, and no one questions it. Madness is not a weakness here. It is a weapon. A banner. Something they would rather stand behind than face.
He is their mad king.
Their demon crowned in frost and fire.
Kiera hands me a wineglass. We slip into conversation easily, and when I hesitantly mention him hitting his temple, her expression tightens for a fraction of a second.
