Chapter 18
Peighton
The car glides over rough cobblestone streets, making my chest jiggle. I stare down at my bust, then tug up at the neckline.
They’re boobs, Peighton. This isn’t church. Relax.
I miss when worrying about traffic or parking in Los Angeles was my biggest problem.
Off campus, tucked on a hill overlooking St. Andrews, the old brick building has been converted into some kind of Sokolov-only retreat.
Big banners, dark wood, a table that stretches almost the entire length of the room. Windowless. Men in suits and women in tasteful dresses sit in small groups, drinking vodka like it is water and talking business in Russian.
Keira and I step inside together. Her heels click confidently against the wooden floor. Mine falter for half a second before I force myself to walk like I belong.
Because I do belong. On paper, at least.
I am Mrs. Sokolova now. A mob wife. A Yellow Card bride. A girl traded like a chess piece.
Gustav is already at the table near the far end, seated with some high-ranking men. Petyr sits beside him, posture relaxed, eyes always assessing. His salt and pepper hair sparkles under the low light. There are a few enforcers scattered around, their shoulders too wide for the chairs, their expressions flat and lethal.
Gustav glances when I enter. But not for long.
His hair is styled back, dark and perfect. His jaw is sharp. His suit fits like it was stitched straight onto his body. He’s power in flesh, and he wears the cold around him like another expensive layer. The last time I saw those eyes truly soft was in my bed. Now they are steel.
I sigh. Yep. He isstillpunishing me for the boy in the castle.
Keira gives my arm a light squeeze, then leads me to an open seat beside him. I slide into the chair, careful not to bump his elbow. A glass of vodka waits in front of me, already poured.
Gustav’s gaze flicks my way once, quick as a knife, then returns to the man speaking to him in Russian. He gives no greeting. No touch. No sign that walking into this room made any difference to him at all.
I try not to shrink.
Conversation flows around me in a language I can’t understand. Words like guns, swearing, and names slip through my mind in fragments I try to piece together. Some wives laugh softly with each other. Others sit straight and quiet, eyes lowered, listening more than they speak.
I want to look capable. Competent. Worthy of this chair.
of sitting down.
One of the elder captains raises his glass and says something in Russian that sounds like a toast. Everyone lifts their vodka. I do too, pleased with myself for catching the cue. Then, thinking I am being polite, I take a polite sip and set the glass down.
Keira nudges me under the table with the tip of her shoe. When I glance at her, she flicks her gaze at my glass and gives the tiniest shake of her head.
Right. Something is wrong.
I look around and realize no one else has put their glass down. They have all drained it completely. Not a dainty sip. A full swallow.
Heat pricks my cheeks. I grab my glass again, toss back the remaining vodka in a quick burn, and set it down empty. When I glance at Keira, she gives me a small approving nod as if to say: there you go, that’s better.
Gustav’s mouth curves. Not into a smile. Into something thinner. Sharper. He has noticed. His fingers tap once against the tablecloth.
Mistake one logged.
Dinner is served, and I reach for the serving spoon out of habit to help an older man across from me.
Keira’s hand darts out and lands lightly on my wrist, stopping me mid-reach.
Second mistake.
