Me
Thank u
Tyra
Always. Ur my sister. Blood or not.
I cling to her words like a lifeline until sleep finally drags me under, but morning comes too soon.
I walk through the halls of Stockton Manor for possibly the last time, my suitcase now filled with the most meaningless things: clothes, shoes, the necklace Mom gave me when I turned sixteen. Even a gun, but nothing that can truly protect me from a destiny I didn’t want. Nothing that matters.
Jarvis waits at the bottom of the stairs, eyes glassy. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. He’s been around my entire life. I throw myself in his arms and cry. He holds me until I let go. Always strong for me.
Outside, a black SUV idles by the front steps. Micha stands beside it, arms behind his back, posture perfect and rigid. The air is cold. Crisper than usual for southern California. Or maybe it’s just me.
As I step down onto the stone walkway, my entire body hums with one clear warning:
This is wrong. This is terribly, horrifically wrong.
And for the first time in my life, I wish I didn’t save my innocence for my future husband. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I could’ve chosen the man.
Chapter 3
Peighton
Russia is colder than anything I’ve ever experienced.
Not just winter cold.
Bone cold.
Soul cold.
The moment Micha ushers me out of the airport, the wind slices through my coat like it’s nothing but tissue paper. My breath fogs instantly, little clouds floating in front of my face. California never prepared me for this kind of winter. Everything looks muted. Gray sky, gray roads, gray-brown earth frozen into brittle slabs.
I’m still not convinced this isn’t a nightmare.
Micha opens the SUV door for me. I slide inside, hands tucked into my sleeves, trying not to shake. Whether from fear or temperature, I’m not sure anymore.
The drive stretches on forever. Forests blur by. Snow covered pines and skeletal birches, their branches reaching like warning fingers. No houses. No towns. Just endless wilderness. Every mile takes me farther from everything I know, and deeper into the grip of a man I’ve never met.
Eventually the trees thin, the road widening into a clearing. And then I see it.
A castle.
A real, towering, stone-and-turret castle rising from the frozen earth like something ripped from a gothic novel. I didn’t know places like this existed outside of museums or tourist traps. This one is not welcoming. It is dark. It is ancient. And it looks like it eats sunlight.
Armed guards stand at every post, rifles visible, attention sharp. They don’t hide. They want to be seen. A reminder that whatever I am now, I’m not free.
And apparently, the government doesn’t care this place exists.
The SUV crunches to a stop in front of steep stone steps. Micha steps out first, then circles to open my door.
I climb out, my tennis shoes slipping slightly on the icy ground. Cold air grips my lungs as I stare upward at the massive entrance door: wooden, iron-reinforced, old enough to have seen wars.
Micha carries my suitcase effortlessly and leads the way. I follow, my legs stiff, ascending the steps one by one. At the top, he pushes open the door, and the castle swallows us.
The entry hall is cavernous. Gray stone walls. High, arched ceilings that trap echoes. Chandeliers that barely light the room with their dim bulbs. The air smells faintly of smoke and metal. No warmth. No color. No hint of softness.
