Page 66 of Nikolay

There it was.

No manipulation. No coyness. Just the question laid out in front of me where I could take it or leave it.

I hesitated one second.

Not because I didn’t know. Because I knew too fast.

My wolf had been penned too long. That was the plain truth of it. Weeks in this city. Weeks in a vampire estate. Weeks of smelling stone and old wood and ancient blood and the iron tang of fate and the sharp little humiliations of wanting what did not know how to welcome me yet. I had shifted, sure, but not the way wolves were meant to. To move together under a real moon with distance enough to stretch into. My body missed open ground. My lungs missed cold night tearing through them at full speed. Something under my skin had gone lean and restless with the lack.

“I’m coming,” I said.

The answer landed between us with the clean weight of a decision finally spoken aloud.

And, Lord, the look that crossed his face.

He did not grin. He was too polished for that. But satisfaction warmed his expression in a way that came dangerously close to pleasure, and for one quick second it seemed less like he had invited a stray wolf to a pack run and more like he had just gotten exactly what he’d hoped for.

I filed that away without poking it too hard.

“Good,” he said.

Simple word. Too pleased.

I lifted one brow. “You sound real confident I won’t be a burden.”

His gaze held mine. “You do not strike me as the burden type.”

That should not have pleased me.

It did anyway.

“Well,” I said, because professionalism was hanging by a thread and sarcasm was one of the better ways I knew to reinforce it, “I’ll try not to embarrass your rich-people wolves with my Texas manners.”

One of the women at the table heard that and called over, “Too late. We already like you.”

I laughed despite myself.

Sage stepped back enough to clear my path. “We’ll send details through Sloan.”

“Appreciate it.”

Then I went on with my shift before anybody, most of all me, could decide that exchange meant more than it had to.

The rest of the night passed in the ordinary choreography of Obsidian’s late hours, which was to say nothing about it was ordinary at all except that I knew how to do it. Tabs closed. New tabs opened.

And through all of it, I worked.

There was grace in that. Not beauty, exactly. Something sturdier. Repetition had its own mercy. Clear the glasses. Check the table numbers. Ring the order. Smile where needed. Withhold it where not. Keep moving.

I did not see Nikolay again.

That was not quite true. I did not see him closely again. Once, from the far side of the room, I caught the line of his shoulders disappearing near the stairs. Once more I thought I felt his attention brush me from somewhere above, but when I looked there was only purple light and polished railings and my own nerves trying to turn the whole building into a message. Whether he was gone or merely out of sight, I could not tell.

Which was probably for the best.

A girl could only survive so many corridor crimes in one evening.

When I circled back to Ironwood’s table with the handheld to close out their tab, the warmth there hit me before the words did.