I breathe, but it feels hopeless.
We walk back to St. Andrews. The cold gnaws at my ankles. Tyra keeps an arm looped through mine the whole way, murmuring soft comforts until we reach my room. I collapse on the bed with my coat still on, exhaustion dragging me under.
The next morning is a blur of drills and etiquette workshops and clinical lectures on mob protocol. My hangover pounds behind my eyes. I’m too tired to be afraid, which helps, but only barely.
By afternoon, the compound shifts. Black cars roll through the gates. Heavy footsteps echo in corridors. Voices deepen. The air thickens with authority. Several mob bosses gather for a neutral-ground meeting, though no one expects Gustav. He’s unreachable. Off grid.
I walk down the school corridor, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, when suddenly my back slams into a wall. A sharp blade kisses the thin skin of my throat. I freeze.
A breath — hot, ragged — brushes my cheek. Gray eyes. Wild. Wrathful. Unhinged.
My Gustav.
“Did you fuck him?” he snarls. “Did you let another man touch you?”
His nostrils flare like a rabid animal’s, jaw clenched so tight the muscles bulge. The knife presses deeper, cold and merciless. A bead of blood slides down my neck.
Fear should paralyze me. It doesn’t.
Relief floods me instead, warm and dizzying. My husband is here. Alive. Within reach. Furious, yes, but back in my orbit like gravity correcting itself.
I lift one hand slowly and cup his cheek. His skin is too warm. His hair is disheveled. And there: fresh cuts across his temples, like red letter Xs, the lines of dried blood.
“Oh baby,” I whisper, my thumb brushing gently over the Xs. “You did this?”
He growls, chest heaving against me. The blade trembles where it presses into my throat.
“I know! I’ll do it,” he says under his breath, and I can tell, he isn’t talking to me.
“Shh,” I say softly. “Don’t listen to those voices. I’m here now, Gustav. Me. Peighton.”
His eyes flicker, confusion knifing through the fury. He blinks once. Twice.
I say the truth.
“I love you, baby. There’s no way I can let someone touch me like you do. I’m yours. Come back to me.”
The pressure of the knife eases. My breath finally reaches my lungs. I take my chance, grab the blade from his hand like I wastaught, and slip it behind me. Before he can react, I lean up and kiss him.
A soft graze of lips. Warm. Familiar. Grounding. My tongue invades his mouth and he lets me.
When we part, his breathing is different. Shaky and uneven. I look him over. His shirt is buttoned wrong. His collar crooked. Shirt untucked. His hair wild from stress or fighting.
Male voices echo from down the hall. Bosses approaching.
Wife-mode clicks into place.
I unfasten the top of his shirt with quick hands, smooth the fabric, re-button correctly, then tuck the hem into his slacks with force — like I own this madman. His chest rises with each breath, watching me intently, struggling to stay still under my touch. I lick my fingertips and smooth his hair, combing it back. I check him over. Much better.
The hallway fills with footsteps. I grab Gustav’s hand just as the men round the corner.
They stop, surprised. Then relieved. Then respectful.
“Gustav,” one says. “We thought you wouldn’t make it.”
He nods stiffly. “My apologies. Business.”
Their gazes move to me. One smiles. “Your wife is lovely.”
