Page 55 of Maksym

“Yes, Majesty. A blood magic contract is drawn between the vampire and the human donor by mutual agreement. It has an expiration date or can be broken, but there is due process for that to happen.”

“So, Lucian. Did you and your donor go through this due process?”

“Well, no, Majesty. We didn’t end the contract. And that’s why I am so worried. My um... donor was temperamental, see, and tended to throw little tantrums. I’m afraid she was angry with me and might have run away to seek an audience with you or one of your representatives, or even possibly run outside the kingdom.”

“This is troubling indeed. You're afraid she might go to human authorities? Expose us to the human world? This would be damning for you if so, Lucian. Damning to you and my kingdom. Do you have any idea where she might be? Any leads as to where she may have run?”

This was it. This is what I had to know.

“At this point, no. I have very good scrying witches looking. Her trail went cold near Amethyst.”

He looked me in the eye then as though he wanted to accuse me of something.

I laughed.

“I can assure you, I would have been informed if a renegade contracted human woman donor was on the loose at Amethyst. My people wouldn’t dare harbor such a creature. If she'd made her way to us, I'd be validating the contract you have with her, I assure you.” I let my shadows climb the walls and cross the floor until they reached his chair before I continued. “And I’d be very fucking careful before I accused my king of violating Crown law, Deveraux.”

He tripped over his words then.

“Oh no my king, I would never! I was just hoping you might have heard something that might be helpful. And if not, I wanted to give the information so as not to keep something like this from you.”

I pulled my shadows back slightly.

“Your information is duly noted. This is something you'd better figure out before the human authorities get involved. It could end very badly for you, indeed. Now, I have other matters that need my attention. You've wasted enough of my time.”

His disdain for me was barely hidden from his face. But his fear outweighed his hatred.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

That answered the question.

“At least we know he has no idea she’s safe with me. Let’s make sure it stays that way.”

I felt Grace before the knock came, before Millie’s gentle voice sounded on the other side of the door, before the latch turned beneath a careful hand. The bond moved through me like a blade warming near a fire—not pain, not comfort, but recognition insisting upon itself.

I stood before she entered. Then the door opened.

Millie came first, small and round and steady as an old bell tower, her black-and-silver hair pinned into its pretty bun.

Grace came beside her. For one breath, my office ceased being a place of war.

She wore a sea-foam green dress that moved around her like water that had been persuaded into cloth. It should have looked too soft for what she had survived, too gentle for the raw edges of her mouth and the bruised shadows that lingered beneath eyes turned a clearer, deeper navy than they had been when she was human. Instead, she was radiant. The wide waist gave shape to a body no longer collapsing in on itself.

She also stopped dead when she saw Remy.

Not frightened. Not exactly. Grace’s fear had shades now, and I was learning them the way one learned weather in hostile terrain. This was caution sharpened by surprise. Her gaze moved from Taras at the conference table, to the spread of papers, to Lucian’s image frozen on my monitor, then to the woman seated at the head of the long table as though she had every right to occupy the place from which kingdoms were usually dissected.

Remy had dressed in black designer slacks, a cream silk blouse, and heels tall enough to make lesser women repent. Her deep brown skin held golden undertones under the office lights, and her long black curls were piled in a loose knot. Her eyes were dark when she entered most rooms. Now, with power close beneath the skin, they had gone amber-gold.

Grace stared.

I moved at once, not in front of her and not too near. Beside her. A place she could refuse if she wished.

“Grace,” I said, keeping my voice low. “This is Remington Duval. Remy to those who value their lives but not enough to use her full name. She is from New Orleans, right hand in most things that Taras is not. She has worked with us for decades.”

Grace’s head turned slowly toward me. I saw the calculation.

Her eyes moved back to Remy’s face. The smooth skin. The apparent youth. The elegance that looked no older than Grace herself, though Remy had been terrifying foolish men before Grace’s grandmother had lost her last tooth, most likely.