Page 122 of Maksym

“It is good to meet you too,” Lucia’s gaze sharpened. “I would say welcome to the family, but that phrase is often used by people who intend to behave badly and expect you to tolerate it because they have said something sentimental first.”

I stared at her.

Then I laughed once, because there was no other reasonable response.

“Federal prosecutors should have that printed on coffee mugs.”

Lucia’s expression changed. Just slightly. “Maksym said you were quick.”

“Maksym has been charitable due to recent blood loss and possible emotional compromise.”

“I have never been charitable due to emotional compromise,” Maksym said.

Lucia’s eyes flicked to him again. “That is nearly true.”

Before he could answer, a man entered from the corridor behind her and altered the room without appearing to try.

He was built like a beautiful, well-dressed freight train.

There was no kinder way to phrase it.

He was broad through the shoulders and chest, stocky in a way that suggested practical strength rather than vanity, and handsome with the kind of face that would have made people confess things in an emergency room. Blue eyes missed nothing and judged little. His tailored shirt fit well, but could not disguise the fact that the body inside it had been built for fieldwork, crisis, and carrying people out of burning buildings, whether they had signed consent forms or not.

He sauntered in as if the Kozlov estate did not intimidate him in the least, which meant he was either brave, foolish, or married into the family with full knowledge of the consequences. Possibly all three.

He dropped one enormous hand onto Lucia’s shoulder and bent to press a kiss to her temple.

The gesture was easy.

Possessive, yes, but not performative. She leaned into it by the smallest measure, and the sharpness in her face did not disappear so much as allow itself to rest.

Then he looked at her and drawled, “Lucia, honey, you’ve lived in Texas long enough to have learned at least a little Southern charm, haven’t you?”

The accent hit me with such unexpected familiarity that something in my chest loosened before I gave it permission.

It was not Tennessee. Not exactly. Texas had a broader vowel, more sun-baked confidence, less mountain smoke. But it was close enough to remind my nervous system that not every powerful being in this house spoke like they had personally negotiated the fall of empires.

Lucia did not look repentant.

“I was charming.”

He looked at me. “Was she?”

I considered the woman still holding my hands. “Efficiently.”

His grin broke open. It changed his whole face. Warmth moved through him like a porch light flicking on after dark. He extended his free hand to me. Lucia released one of mine so I could take it.

“Ryder Lowrey,” he said. “Doc, to my friends.”

His hand engulfed mine, but the grip was careful. Doctor’s hands, I thought immediately. Strong, steady, aware of damage even when damage had not introduced itself.

The smile that split my face was involuntary and genuine.

“Grace Marlow,” I said. “I’m undecided on whether we’re friends, but you get provisional status for that accent.”

“Fair enough. I’ve had worse opening terms.”

“You usually earn them,” Lucia said.