Page 126 of Maksym

He shrugged. “Low blood sugar makes hard conversations worse.”

“I don’t think I have blood sugar anymore.”

“Metabolic details are rude when a man is trying to feed somebody.”

There it was again. That smile. Mine came easier this time, though smaller.

“Noted.”

I took the plate because refusal would have been rude, and because my grandmother had not raised me to ignore cheese presented during emotional interrogation.

Also, I was hungry.

The first bite grounded me more effectively than several coping strategies I had paid therapists to teach me during law school. Sharp cheese. Salt. Bread crisp at the edges. Human food still tasted like human food, which felt like a victory no one had told me to expect.

I swallowed and looked at Doc.

“My turn.”

Lucia’s brows lifted.

I felt Maksym glance at me. Good. Let him wonder.

“How does a wolf shifter become the first vampire-wolf hybrid in over a century?” I asked. “And I offer a half-hearted apology for asking, but only half, because this family appears to consider direct questioning an acceptable sport.”

Doc barked a laugh.

Lucia’s eyes warmed. “It is hundreds of years, depending on which records one trusts.”

“Of course there are records.”

“There are always records,” Maksym said.

I looked at him. “Your family would make terrible criminals.”

“We make excellent criminals when necessary.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It was not meant to be.”

Lucia ignored us both with the ease of long practice.

“The shortest version,” she said, “is that there was a battle involving demons. Ryder was injured. His femoral artery was severed.”

My knuckles whitened around the edge of my plate.

The body remembered what the law made you learn. Femoral artery. Catastrophic bleed. Minutes, if that. Less, depending on the damage. I saw it too clearly: blood pumping from the thigh, hands pressing down, slick ground, someone shouting with professional calm because panic wasted time and time was already leaving.

Doc noticed.

Of course he did.

“He was bleeding out on the ground,” Lucia continued, every word clean and controlled. “I refused to watch him die. So I gave him my blood. More than should have been possible. More than was safe. I turned him.”

The words landed between them.

Not accusation. Not apology. Fact, carrying both.