Page 121 of Nikolay

The wine had gone a little to my head by then. Not enough to blur thought entirely. Enough to soften the edges around it. The fire had worked its way through the cabin and into my bones. My body, still carrying last night’s run and this morning’s bad wakefulness, had begun to feel heavy in the pleasant, dangerous way warmth sometimes made possible.

I exhaled slowly. “You know what bothers me?”

“I have some guesses.”

“I’m sure you do.” I stared into my glass. “It’s that you sound reasonable.”

His silence invited more.

“I would almost rather you were an ass about it,” I admitted. “Then at least I’d know where to put my irritation.”

One side of his mouth tilted. “And because I’m not?”

“I have to do the annoying work of deciding whether I’m irritated because you’re wrong or because you’re close enough to right that I don’t like hearing it from you.”

That earned a longer look from him, one with something like respect in it. “That is very honest.”

“Don’t reward me. I’ll stop doing it.”

He gave a low laugh at that, but softly enough not to jostle the moment.

We did not return to the subject directly after that. Or rather, he let it widen back out into easier ground with such finesse I only noticed because I was watching for it now. He asked about books. About the kind of music I played in the car when I was driving alone and not trying to impress anybody. About the first horse I had ever loved and whether I had been sensible enough not to tell the animal all my teenage secrets. I gave him enough truth to keep the talk moving and withheld enough to reassure myself I still could.

At some point I moved from the chair to the sofa because it sat closer to the fire. At some point after that, he removed his jacket and sat beside me rather than across. Not crowded. Just near enough that the heat of him became another quiet fact in the room.

I should have minded more than I did.

The wool throw ended up over my legs. I did not remember deciding to pull it there. My eyelids had grown heavy. The wine lay warm and drowsy in my stomach. I tried to think of Nikolay but could not hold on to the memory of him. Why was that? Why, when I was with Sage, could I not keep Nikolay near to my heart?

The rhythm of the fire, the long ride, the rise and fall of his voice whenever he answered me or asked something small in return—it all braided together into a kind of lulled suspension.

When my head finally tipped and found his shoulder, I knew it had happened.

I also knew I could move.

I didn’t.

Sage went still for one careful beat, then settled again without comment, as if not startling me mattered more than claiming the moment. The wool of his sweater was warm against my temple. Beneath that, his shoulder was solid.

I breathed once.

Twice.

The last thing I remember clearly was the fire shifting in the hearth and Sage’s quiet stillness beside me while sleep came up and took me.

Chapter 19

Nikolay

The stone beneath my palm was cold enough to bite, and I welcomed the pain because it was clean, local, comprehensible. What sat in my chest was none of those things. The bond to Maddie had not gone silent, which would have been terror of one kind; it had gone wrong, stretched thin and bruised and pulsing at strange intervals like a wound being handled by someone cruel. Behind me, wolves and vampires gathered around a table built for diplomacy and prepared to turn it, if needed, into a map of war.

The war room lay just off the grand foyer, a long chamber Father had once used for treaty discussions with men now dust. Morning forced itself through the narrow windows in pale bands, the sort of thin early fall light that made every hard thing harder. It fell over polished wood, over iron sconces glowing with electric light, over the tactical map spread across the length of the table like a body awaiting examination.

The contrast would have amused me another day. Centuries-old grandeur. Silver trays untouched on the sideboard. A carved ceiling blackened with age and smoke and memory. Beside the door, stacked in brutal, practical rows, hard black weapons cases from Iron Valor. Modern rifles. Ammunition. Suppressed sidearms. Enough disciplined violence to level a lesser house. History and bloodshed had always made natural companions. We simply dressed them differently now.

Maksym stood at the head of the table with both hands braced against its edge, his broad shoulders making a wall between the room and the map. Taras remained at his right, pen moving across a leather-bound notebook in tight, exact strokes that betrayed none of what he thought and all of what he intended to remember. Lucia stood near the door with that military stillness she wore better than silk, one hand resting lightly near her hip as if a blade might materialize there by loyalty alone. Juliet stood close enough to her that their sleeves nearly brushed. The wolf Luna had her hand on Lucia’s forearm, and the look that passed between them held old affection and fresh dread in equal measure. They had both loved warriors long enough to know what it meant when men gathered before dawn and started speaking in clipped voices. The only one missing was Bodhan who angrily agreed to be the one to remain at Obsidian. Someone needed to keep the doors open and the staff safe while the family disappeared into the woods. He’d complained about it loudly enough for everyone to hear, but even Bodhan understood that kingdoms still needed tending while wars were fought.

Across from them, the wolves brought Texas into the room with them in mud, leather, broad chests, and the particular force of bodies that answered first to instinct and then to strategy. Bronc occupied one side of the table as if he had built it himself. He had not slept. None of them had, I thought, but sleeplessness on him looked like a harder set to the mouth and a deeper cut to the blue of his eyes.