Page 38 of Nikolay

Maddie did not pull away.

Why would she? It was pack closeness, perhaps. The simple physical shorthand of wolves at ease with one another. I knew that. I knew enough of shifter habits by now, enough from Ryder, enough from observation, enough from living in the wake of my sister’s impossible bond. But knowing a thing intellectually did not prevent the uglier response from lifting its head in me. I watched that contact remain and felt something in my chest turn mean.

Because Sage did not look accidental.

His head inclined when she spoke. His attention returned to her after others at the table had taken their turn. Twice I saw his dark eyes settle on her with that assessing steadiness and remain there a beat too long for mere courtesy. He was not crowding her. Not posturing. If anything, the restraint in him made it worse. Men with patience were more dangerous than those who lunged.

I knew that because I had made a life of patience.

Thirty minutes passed that way, marked only by the changing angle of shoulders and glasses, by servers drifting in and out of the lounge’s perimeter, by the slow degradation of my composure.

Maddie smiled more in that half hour than she had ever smiled at me without defense mixed through it.

That was not entirely my fault. She had laughed before me, yes. Snapped at me. Baited me. Met my contempt with sparks enough to start a field fire. But ease? Ease belonged to the room below. To wolves who had not made her feel coarse for existing. To an alpha in a costly suit whose regard, from where I stood, looked disquietingly like interest and not at all like disdain.

I thought of the absurd catalog of my own sins against her in the last day alone. Entering her room and standing in the doorway as though I possessed any right to judge what lay on her floor. Reaching for her book—her book, as if the phrase itself were not accusation enough—and having her slap my hand away with more justice than I deserved. Telling myself I had wished to prove some point when the truth was uglier and smaller: I had wanted contact with a sacred thing of hers before I had earned any place near it. Then the club floor. My cruel words. My voice sharpened to cut because I had seen desire flare in both of us and lacked the courage to suffer it honestly. Then, as if all that were insufficient, the feeding alcove and her face when she turned the corner and saw me arranged with another woman like a lie made flesh.

I had done all this. And now I stood above her like a condemned man staring down at the consequence of his own workmanship.

Sage said something. I could not hear it. Maddie’s smile changed, grew softer, then more amused. One of the others at the table joined in. The alpha’s mouth curved again.

Maddie turned her head then, only slightly, glancing away from the table toward the open lounge and the guarded stair beyond. Not toward me. She could not see me through the one-way glass and distance besides. But for one useless second I reacted as if she might. My body tightened. Hope, ridiculous and involuntary, struck and vanished in the same instant.

She only looked, then turned back to the wolves.

That should not have wounded. It did.

Sage followed the direction of her glance. His expression altered by almost nothing. Then he looked at her again.

Something in me finally reached its threshold.

I pushed off the frame so abruptly that the movement echoed once in the room behind me, a muted thud of hand leaving metal and wood. My palms stung. I had left half-moons where my nails had pressed into skin. Across the dark glass my reflection stared back at me for a fraction of a second—broad-shouldered, rigid, eyes gone too bright in a face otherwise held under ruthless control. I despised the man in it.

Good. Despising him at least had the virtue of accuracy.

Then I turned from the glass and moved.

Amara stood behind the membership desk beneath the great obsidian chandelier, all dark silk elegance and iron-backed composure. She was six feet of immaculate posture and precise judgment, her skin deep and luminous under the club’s softened light, her sleek black hair falling like polished ink over one shoulder. Her mouth wore its usual glossy red, her expression its usual efficient reserve. She checked memberships, ran backgrounds, and barred fools from the door with a civility more frightening than force. I had seen elder vampires bristle under her scrutiny and decide, after one look, that compliance better suited their evening.

She looked up as I approached.

Something in my face must have told on me, because one of her brows lifted by the smallest degree before smoothing again.

I planted both hands on the edge of her desk.

The lacquered black surface reflected my cuffs, my fingers spread too widely, the hard line of my shoulders leaning in. I became abruptly aware that I looked less like a prince seeking information than a man bracing himself against an impact already in progress.

“Amara,” I said.

“Your Highness.”

Her clipped tone held no alarm, yet it had sharpened. She had seen enough of this family to recognize when one of us arrived with a purpose not suited to ordinary pleasantries.

“I need everything you have on Sage Lynch.”

She did not repeat the name. That alone told me she knew it well.

Instead, she said, “He was vetted through standard membership protocols before approval. His file—”