It needs a woman’s touch. Badly. Some flowers. A rug. Maybe lights that don’t look like they’re one flicker from dying.
Micha sets my suitcase beside me and then stands perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back.
So I mimic him.
Because I assume that’s what I’m supposed to do now.
Wait.
My heartbeat ricochets through my ribs.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow and steady, echoing down a dark hallway like the castle itself is holding its breath.
A figure emerges from the shadows.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Jet-black hair slicked back and buzzed on the sides, not a single strand daring to fall out of line.
Skin pale like you’d expect since the sun in Russia is no brighter than moonlight. His eyes, chilling and storm-gray, are unnatural on a mortal man. They feel like they see through me and into my thoughts. It’s unnerving to say the least.
Actually, his face is almost too perfect.
A straight, sharp nose. High cheekbones. A jaw built for violence. His mouth is full but unsmiling, the kind that could kiss a woman senseless or bite her until she bled. His lashes are dark and thick, framing those gray eyes in a way that feels unfair.
Gustav Sokolov.
My future husband.
My lungs seize, because he is... beautiful.
So handsome. In fact, he’s gorgeous in a way that feels wrong. Unholy. Like a statue carved by a bitter god who wanted his creation to be feared more than adored.
He stops in front of me. Silent. Expression unreadable. Staring with an intensity that strips me bare. His gaze drags over my face like he’s cataloging every detail. Not with lust, but with ownership.
A spark flickers in his eyes, subtle, but unmistakable: interest.
Maybe even... hunger? I can’t tell.
Seconds stretch into forever.
Finally, trying not to faint, I step forward and hold out my hand.
“H-hi. I’m Peighton.”
He glances at my hand as if it’s contaminated.
“So American,” he mutters, voice low and accented, every syllable soaked in disdain.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
His gaze sharpens.
Then he moves.
Fast.
