Page 104 of Nikolay

“It was French toast, Devon, not a sonnet.”

“It can be both.”

Despite myself, my mouth almost softened. Then the bond pulled again—hard, sick, wrong—and whatever warmth had threatened to appear died instantly.

“I brought her lemon pastries from Aspen’s bakery,” I said. “The little iced ones she likes. She had once mentioned them in passing, and I remembered. I left a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird on her desk because her own copy was dog-eared nearly to death and she spoke of that book as if it were kin. I...” I scrubbed a hand over my mouth. “In the foyer last night I brushed icing from the corner of her mouth and tapped her nose like a fool.”

Devon made a soft sound of approval that, under any other circumstances, would have mortified me.

Father did not bother to hide his disgust. “My most intelligent son is also, it seems, the stupidest.”

I looked at him levelly. “I am aware.”

“She was in your house. Interested. Waiting. You chose pastries.”

“Father—”

“A nose tap,” he added, as though the charge required further support. “Goddess.”

Devon laughed under her breath, then immediately sobered when the bond gave another wrench through my chest sharp enough that I had to lock my knees against it.

Her expression changed first. “Nikolay.”

I swallowed. “Her last message said she wanted to talk to me about something important when she returned. She said she might stay at Ironwood for a couple of days.” I stared at the phone still in my hand as if I could compel a different outcome by force of will alone. “I thought it meant she meant to meet me halfway. I thought...”

That I had not ruined this beyond repair. That the softness in her around me had not been wishful fantasy on my part. That perhaps she had felt the same absurd, trembling hope that had made me leave books and pastries rather than simply drag her into my arms and beg her pardon for all the ways I had failed her.

Father leaned back in his chair with that controlled stillness which, in any other man, might have looked calm. In him, it was a form of violence delayed.

“Have you tried Ironwood’s territory contacts?”

“Yes.”

“Directly?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” My voice flattened. “No answer from anyone I should have been able to reach. No returned calls. No message. No assurance that she is merely asleep, drunk, or indisposed.”

Devon slid from the arm of Father’s chair then, graceful in that unconscious way of hers, and came around the desk. She laid her hand lightly on my forearm. Such a small touch, yet there was a strange steadiness in it, like cool water offered to a fever.

“Tell us what Amelia reported,” she said.

I turned my hand beneath hers and gripped the edge of the desk instead, because if I took comfort right then I might become unfit for civilized company.

“She told Bohdan and me yesterday that Ironwood had been making inquiries to the oldest covens in the country.” I forced myself to be exact. “Verdant Hollow. Astral Spire. A few others she could not fully confirm because those circles closed ranks the moment they sensed her interest. None of them were speaking plainly. Which was bad enough by itself. Amelia said their silence felt intentional rather than merely protective.”

Father’s pale eyes sharpened by degrees. “And you did not wake me immediately because?”

“Because we did not know what the inquiries concerned,” I said. “And because at the time I was still trying to convince myself my distress over Maddie’s silence was irrational.”

There. Let him judge that.

He did. “I see.”

Devon’s fingers tightened once on my sleeve, not enough to comfort, only enough to remind me she stood there.