Page 134 of Maksym

Bohdan gave me a beatific smile. “Sleep well, brother.”

Nikolay slapped the back of his head again without looking.

Maddie dissolved into laughter.

Grace glanced at me, mouth curving despite herself.

That curve nearly ruined me.

I placed my hand lightly at her back, not guiding so much as accompanying, and followed her out of the sitting room while warmth, danger, blood, family, and the impossible sound of her laughter remained behind us like firelight.

The corridor outside my wing had a distinct silence from the sitting room. Behind us, family still moved and murmured around firelight and food; ahead, the house narrowed into old wood, low lamps, and the kind of privacy that turned restraint into a living thing.

Grace walked beside me without speaking.

I did not fill the quiet. I had learned, poorly and late, that words were not always gifts.

Her steps were steady, but not effortless. The day had remade her by force. Yet she walked upright. Chin lifted.

At the door to her rooms, we stopped.

I could have opened it. I could have wished her goodnight. I could have asked. I did none of those things. I stood at the threshold with my hands at my sides and waited.

Grace looked at the door first. Then at me. Her fingers worried the hem of her sleeve, twisting the soft fabric once before she caught herself and forced them still.

“This is you.” I told her, indicating this is where I’d leave her.

“Can it be you too?” she asked.

My entire body went still.

Her eyes widened slightly, as if the words had escaped by accident. “I mean—” She drew a breath. “I don’t want to wake anyone up with my screams from nightmares.”

Relief moved through me so quickly it was almost indecent.

I exhaled before I could stop myself. Slow. Measured only because centuries of discipline refused to abandon me entirely. My shoulders dropped by a fraction. The beast in me, the king, the mate, the man—all of them had wanted the same thing with such violence that I had not trusted myself to name it.

She had named it. Not as desire. Not fully. Not yet. But she had opened the door.

“Of course,” I said.

Only that. If I said more, I might ruin the courage it had taken her to ask.

She nodded once, then opened the door herself. I followed her inside.

Her suite lay in the eastern reach of my wing, near enough to my rooms that I could hear if she called, far enough that no one could accuse the household of presumption. Tilden had prepared it with his usual merciless competence. A low fire warmed the hearth. Lamps softened the corners. The bed had been turned down, white sheets beneath a dark coverlet, pillows arranged with enough precision to reassure a soldier. Along the far wall stood a large sofa upholstered in deep gray velvet, wide enough to serve as a bed if one had no imagination and a very strong commitment to self-denial.

Grace looked around as if she had forgotten, for a moment, that rooms could be beautiful without being traps.

“I’ll change,” she said.

I inclined my head. “Take your time.”

She disappeared into the en-suite and closed the door.

I remained where I was for three breaths. Then I moved.

My own rooms lay close enough that I could have crossed to them blind. I changed quickly, removing the suit that still held Obsidian’s scent and the faint trace of her hand from where she had gripped my arm during the demonstration. I left on only black silk pajama pants, tied low at my hips.