Chapter 21
Peighton
The next day, my cheek throbs with the welt the belt left, a bruise in the shape of humiliation. I keep my hair tucked forward in hopes it covers the mark. Keira doesn’t comment on it as we pick at our lunch.
Just then, a group of women walk by, snickering and whispering. Literal mean girls.
“Ugh,” I whine to Keira. “Everyone hates me.”
“They do not,” she replies, unconvincingly.
I haven’t broached the subject, but it’s been weighing on me all day.
“Did you know?” I whisper, then angrier, “Did you know I was about to beattackedandhumiliatedlast night?”
She looks at her tray and murmurs, “Not until moments before when they told me to leave. I assumed.”
I scoff, loud and indignant. “You should have warned me, you back-stabbing—”
She gawks, mouth open, then snaps, “You did this to yourself. You’re prideful and spoiled.” She stands and clutches her bag close. “And maybe others would like you if you didn’t act like everything Russian is beneath you.”
I shoot to my feet to be eye-to-eye. “It is beneath me. It’s an outdated hellhole.”
She narrows her eyes and storms out.
I groan, because I think I just lost my only female friend in this godforsaken country.
Three weeks pass.
I hang my head and trudge outside. Micha and I walk the narrow cobblestone path along the St. Andrews grounds. He escorts me to my Russian language class, which I am desperate to learn. No more ambushes.Bezhatmeans run. My husband told me to run. Asshole.
I hug myself, brooding.
Snow blankets the lawns beyond the walkway, a soft white layer swallowing every sharp edge. The air smells woodsmoke. It should feel peaceful, but all I feel is trapped.
Micha is the closest thing I have to a friend nowadays. Keira won’t talk to me. Much like my husband who haven’t spoken to since that night.
Students pass us, whispering behind gloved hands. The girls look at me with pity. I can’t tell if they’re pleased the American girl was put in her place or if they’re horrified a man like Gustav is my husband. It doesn’t matter. My reputation feels fractured beyond repair. I feel fractured.
“I miss home,” I say. “Not just the place. The... feeling of it. Holidays always came with comfort back there. Warmth. Familiar things.” My breath escapes in a white puff. “I missed Thanksgiving. Tyra sent me pictures of the table she set. My dad fried a turkey. Everyone was there except me.”
Micha listens. He always does. His steps crunch beside mine, slow and steady. He’s the only person here besides Gustav I spend real time with, but with Micha, the world feels less brutal. He’s loyal, assigned to me specifically, and unlike Keira or Petyr or anyone else, he has no reason to manipulate me.
“I know it isn’t the same,” he says, his voice gentle. “December is different here. Less sentimental. More dutiful.”
“Dutiful,” I repeat, staring ahead. “That’s a perfect word for this life.”
A life I didn’t choose, though I can’t pretend Gustav dragged me into it unwillingly anymore. My heart made its choice the moment I realized I loved the man beneath the madness.
Or who I thought he was.
Now I’m uncertain if that man still exists or if he ever did.
“I cry at night,” I say quietly. “Every night. I try not to, but it sneaks out anyway. Everything feels too much. Too frightening. And Gustav...” I pause, because even his name sends conflicting signals through my body. “He’s so cruel. And dark. And I keep wondering if I was delusional to think I could bring him back to who he was. What if there’s nothing left to bring back? Or never was.”
Micha’s silence stretches, and that scares me more than if he had spoken too quickly.
“Gustav is under an unusual amount of pressure,” he finally says. “He is watched by everyone. Rival gangs, the Council, even the men under his own command. It changes a person in ways outsiders do not always see.”
