Page 49 of Kazimir

Devon sat at my right, perched on a velvet sofa. She wore the navy dress I’d selected; the color deepening the unusual silver cast of her skin. If she was nervous, she hid it behind a mask of interest; her gaze flitted from painting to rug to the oddities on the shelves, cataloguing everything. I admired her posture: back straight, hands relaxed, feet flat to the floor as if ready to spring into flight at a moment’s notice. Only the small twist of her mouth betrayed the tension building beneath.

A faint tremor in the floor announced Maksym and Taras before they even crossed the threshold. My eldest entered first, trailed by his twin. Maksym’s suit was black, perfectly tailored, the lapels edged with crimson thread—an unsubtle reminder of his rank in the Las Vegas court. He bowed his head once, the gesture as practiced as it was insincere. Taras flanked him, a step behind and to the left, his movements precise and economic. The twin’s eyes scanned the perimeter, clocking exits and sight lines, then assessed Devon with a cool, impersonal efficiency.

They took seats in two large wingback chairs that were positioned across from the sofa where she sat. I chuckled to myself as Maksym hadn’t initially wanted to take on his role as King of the West when I’d appointed him; and now he sat in his chair as though it were a throne. His expression was impassive, but I could feel the slight chill radiating from him—a shield raised not against me, but for the sake of control. Taras crossed his legs, ankle over knee, and waited, his profile cut from granite.

Lucia arrived next. She swept into the room in a burgundy sheath dress, hair pulled back in a complicated braid, every movement calculated to broadcast strength. Behind her, Ryder hovered, tall and broad and slightly out of place in a suit that made him look like a hired bodyguard. He caught my eye and nodded—a gesture of deference, but also of kinship.

Lucia surveyed the room, landed on Devon, and her mouth fell open.

“Well, what the fuck is this?” she asked, then shot a glare at me. “Papa. You are sneaky, no? A guest, he says…” She broke off, looking for more to say.

Ryder put a hand on her elbow, as if to steady her. “Lioness.” The endearment sounded like a warning. “Your father has news. We will hear what he has to say, hmm?” Then he kissed her forehead, and she leaned into him.

“Of course, moy volk. Forgive me, Papa.”

I nodded as Lucia looked Devon up and down, suspicion curdling into reluctant fascination. She dropped onto the loveseat to our right, Ryder sitting at her side like a sentinel.

Nikolay and Bohdan strolled in last, already mid-conversation. Nikolay was all warm gravitas and subtle charm, wearing his usual earth tones, his beard freshly trimmed. Bohdan looked like a devil in human skin—an impossibly handsome devil in a three-piece suit and an undercurrent of barely concealed glee.

Nikolay greeted me with a brief, respectful bow. Bohdan offered Devon a dazzling smile, but she only narrowed her eyes in return.

With my children assembled, I waited for the last ripples of movement to fade. Then I walked to the arm of the sofa nearest Devon and addressed them in the voice I had reserved for war councils and funerals.

“Thank you for coming. I know you are all busy—Maksym and Taras especially, with the Otero fallout and the management of our western interests.”

Maksym nodded, curt. Taras offered a single, precise tilt of his head.

I continued, “News has reached me that an archangel—Sariel—has been hunting a particular fallen. This is odd, of course, as once heaven decides to cast out, that is usually the end of the story. If any further enforcement takes place, that then goes to Archon and his men. Oddly, that did not happen in this case. Sariel is hunting with the intent to kill. The fallen in question is sitting in this very room, and she is now under my protection.”

A ripple of reaction moved through the room: Taras’s fingers drummed once on his knee; Nikolay’s eyes widened fractionally; Bohdan’s lips curled in approval.

I gestured to Devon, who rose and bowed; the movement awkward but genuine. “This is Devon Wade. She is the fallen. She is also my mate.”

Silence. Then, unexpectedly, Bohdan began to laugh—not a derisive sound, but one of pure delight. “Father, you never cease to surprise. First, you destroy the West’s most powerful coven leader, and now you bed a celestial being?”

Lucia bristled. “You mated an angel?”

I held her gaze. “Your terminology is incorrect child. I didn’t mate her. I am mated to her by fate.”

Her shock flickered into something else—awe, perhaps. “You couldn’t have mentioned this last week when I called?”

“There were complications. Devon was cast out with no memories. She had no idea who or what she was. I knew immediately she was mine. After all these years, I felt her in my soul. But until her memories were restored, I could not add to her trauma that her life had been these past months by telling her this.” I said. “Until fate had her find Obsidian by accident and she literally crashed through our doors, she had no idea the supernatural world existed. For months she lived in poverty and fear with no hope.”

Lucia looked stricken. “Oh, Papa.”

She looked at Devon. “I apologize. I could not have known life had treated you so cruelly.”

It was so clear that Devon wasn’t used to people treating her with kindness.

“Please don’t apologize. You didn’t know. And you don’t know me. I understand your shock. But I swear to you. I would never harm your father, as he is a part of me now. To harm him in any way would be to harm myself. And I understand I look young, and compared to your father, perhaps I am, but I’ve been alive for over 150 years.” She gave a radiant smile. “Being immortal does have its perks.”

Maksym, ever the tactician, leaned forward. “Is she weaponized? Can she defend herself?”

Devon beat me to the answer, a little irritated that he spoke as though she wasn’t in the room. “Yes. I can fight, and I will kill to defend what is mine.” Her voice rang out, clear and absolute.

Maksym’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded, satisfied. “That will do.”

Taras studied her. “Your wings—gone, or merely hidden?”