He looks at me.
Chest heaving. Eyes wild. Every emotion buried under one terrifying wordless snarl of betrayal.
He storms out.
Just leaves the dead man, and me shaking, heart pounding so violently my ribs ache.
Micha remains serene, as if the blood still dripping from the man’s throat is nothing more than spilled wine. He places a steadying hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the hallway.
“Come,” he murmurs. “This room is forbidden. You will learn which doors to keep closed.”
I let him lead me, legs unsteady, heart still hammering. My mind keeps replaying the moment Gustav’s eyes met mine, the flash of hurt, the blaze of fury that swallowed him whole. It follows me down the corridor like a shadow.
When we reach my bedroom, Micha pauses at the doorway.
“Pack your things,” he says calmly.
My voice cracks. “Why?”
“We leave shortly.”
“Leave? Where?” My thoughts collide. Am I being sent away? Punished? Traded? “What are you talking about?”
“To St. Andrew’s,” he answers, hands folding behind his back. “Where you will learn how to be a proper bratva wife.”
Insult lights in my chest like a spark to dry brush.
“I already know how,” I snap. “I grew up in a major criminal organization, Micha. I get the rules. The hierarchy. The protocols. I’ve known them since I could walk. I just— it was a human being and I reacted. Withwater.”
“Da,” he agrees with a faint nod. “But you were raised in an American mafia. The Bratva requires something different. You must be taught to be a Russian wife.”
My mouth falls open.
The implication is probably different rules.
Different expectations.
Different obedience.
My heart sinks.
“I… don’t need lessons,” I insist weakly. “I can figure it out.”
Micha’s look is gentle. Almost pitying.
“No, Peighton. You cannot. All new bratva wives go. Especially bosses’ wives.”
He gestures toward the wardrobe with a quiet finality.
“Pack quickly. A new bride must be prepared.”
And for the first time since arriving in this frozen nightmare, I am unsure if I’m more afraid of Gustav’s violence or the life they expect me to learn. Am I to accept that kind of torture under my roof? It doesn’t feel right.
Chapter 17
Peighton
Traveling with Gustav is like traveling with a storm.
