Page 56 of Nikolay

His gaze shifted to me.

“Nikolay Koslov,” I said.

Recognition did not change his expression much. “Prince.”

His voice was smooth, controlled, and almost offensively civilized. Nothing in it offered disrespect. Nothing yielded an inch either.

“We hope the evening suits you,” I said.

“It has thus far.”

A surface sentence. A surface answer. The pack around him followed his lead—cordial, formal, calibrated. That was what struck me most. Obsidian patrons were often guarded, often predatory, occasionally hostile. But few were formal. Formality in a pleasure house was its own kind of armor.

Bohdan spoke a little longer, something light about the floor demonstration later in the evening and the house’s gratitude for returning patrons. Sage returned each phrase with exactly enough warmth to remain within the boundaries of hospitality while revealing nothing useful. His pack was no better. Pleasant faces. Tight lines.

I said, “If there is anything you require, our staff will see to it.”

Sage’s dark eyes held mine for one measured beat. “Your staff has been excellent.”

The phrasing was impeccable. The emphasis, perhaps, existed only because I was looking for it. Perhaps not.

Bohdan smiled as if none of us were predators testing distance with manners. “Good. Then we shall not interrupt your night further.”

We moved on.

Only once we had reached the bar he said, without looking at me, “Something about that table is off.”

I took the blood whiskey the bartender offered and let the glass rest untouched near my hand. “Agreed.”

“Too controlled,” he said. “They came into a den of indulgence wearing boardroom faces.”

“And requested to be seated in a particular server’s area.”

That made him glance sideways at me. “Ah.”

I did not elaborate. I did not need to.

Amelia reached us before either of us called her. She had been near the ward perimeter, copper hair half-caught back from her face, green eyes already alive with the nasty pleasure of being right about something before anyone else admitted concern. She slid into the space beside us.

“You two look like a pair of gargoyles,” she said. “Which means you’ve noticed the wolves.”

Bohdan lifted his glass toward her in acknowledgment. “We rely on your gifts, Mel.”

“You rely on me because I pay attention while you lot brood.” Her gaze cut to the table in question and back. “Ironwood’s weird.”

“That is not the technical term,” I said.

“It is tonight.” Her words came quick, clipped, dense with opinion. “They keep to wolves. That’s their whole brand. Wolves with wolves. Wolf culture, wolf lineage, all that polished separatist crap dressed up like heritage preservation. They don’t come into mixed supernatural spaces for fun. Not unless there’s a reason.”

Bohdan’s mouth flattened. “And?”

“And I don’t know the reason yet.” She folded her arms. “But I will. Sage Lynch doesn’t bring his people into a place like this to sightsee. He’s either making a point, gathering something, or hunting.”

The last word sat there.

I did not look toward Maddie’s section. The effort required not to was disproportionate.

“Find out which,” I said.