Page 123 of Maksym

Doc kissed her temple again. “See? Charm.”

Lucia’s mouth twitched.

Maksym’s hand moved at my back, not quite touching. I realized then that somewhere during the exchange Lucia had released my other hand, and I had not reached blindly for him. My fingers did not shake. My spine stayed straight. The room still felt enormous and dangerous, but danger had developed chairs and names and a man who called his wife honey in a vampire palace.

Lucia’s gaze moved between Maksym and me.

There was something in it I recognized from court. Not suspicion. Evaluation. She was measuring the space between us, the way he angled toward me without crowding, the way I stood close without hiding.

“So,” she said, “you snagged my brother.”

I looked up at Maksym.

He had gone expressionless in the way that meant he was either amused, irritated, or preparing an invasion. Possibly all three.

“I’m not sure I’d characterize it that way,” I said. “I was dying on pavement. He did most of the snagging.”

Doc coughed. Lucia’s smile finally arrived fully, and it was a dangerous, lovely thing.

Maksym looked down at me. “That is one version of events.”

“It is the one supported by physical evidence.”

“Your legal analysis leaves out several relevant facts.”

“I was unconscious for part of discovery.”

Doc’s grin widened. “Lord, I like her.”

Lucia gave him a sideways look. “You like anyone who makes legal jokes under supernatural pressure.”

“That is a specific and admirable category.”

Maksym’s hand settled lightly at the small of my back. This time he touched. I did not flinch.

Lucia saw that too. Her expression sobered just enough that I knew she understood the significance and would not embarrass me by naming it.

“Come,” she said. “We will gather in the sitting room. Father and Devon are upstairs but will come down soon.”

“Is there a seating chart?” I asked.

“In this family?” Doc said. “Always.”

Lucia glanced at him. “Not tonight.”

“That means there is, but she intends to ignore it.”

“Ryder.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He did not sound the least bit sorry.

The marble coffee table had been laid with such exact abundance that I understood Tilden’s presence before anyone said his name. Dark crystal decanters of blood wine stood near warmed glasses, each vessel arranged with mathematical grace. Small silver labels marked blends I could not yet read without wondering if there would be a test. Beside them, a generous charcuterie spread occupied slate boards and porcelain dishes: cheeses in pale wedges and amber rounds, cured meats folded like silk, grapes, figs, honeycomb, olives, toasted bread, little bowls of nuts and dried fruit, and a dish of something dark red that I avoided examining too closely on principle.

No one told me Tilden had prepared it. No one needed to.

The man was nowhere visible, yet his precision occupied the room the way a signature occupied the bottom of a contract. He had built a table that said nourishment without fuss, elegance without vanity, and if anyone fainted from emotional distress, there were carbohydrates within arm’s reach.