Page 62 of Maksym

Her voice dropped. Taras went utterly still. Remy’s eyes closed once, slowly, then opened.

Grace looked down at the table, but she did not stop.

“They used it to prepare me. Warm. Slick. Mine. They would feed first, sometimes from the wrist, sometimes the thigh, wherever they wanted. Then they used what spilled to make sure my body could be violated thoroughly. Efficiently. No part of me was off-limits because no part of me was considered mine.”

The words opened something ancient and black inside me. Not anger. Anger was too small. Too human. Too brief. This was older. A thing beneath language, the first law written in blood: those who harm what is sacred must be answered until the earth remembers why.

Grace’s hands remained around the mug.

“They had preferences,” she continued, voice nearly a whisper now. “Some liked fear. Some liked crying. Some liked silence. Lucian liked making me argue first. He said the fight made it sweeter when I went still.”

The room blurred at the edges.

I fixed my gaze on her hands because if I looked at Lucian’s photograph, I would cross the room and drive my fist through the monitor, through the wall, through all the miles between Vegas and Phoenix until I found his throat.

Grace kept speaking.

“They cleaned me when company was coming. That was how I knew someone important would visit. Baths. Hair brushed. Bruises covered if they were too ugly. Clothes chosen for access and presentation. Lucian liked saying civilized men did not entertain in a dirty house.”

Remy made a small sound. Not speech. Pain, perhaps.

Grace’s tears fell freely now, but her voice did not break entirely. That was the worst of it. The lawyer in her stood among the ruins with a pen and clipboard, refusing to let the record go incomplete.

“They talked around me because I was furniture. Food. Entertainment. They discussed shipments. Donor registries. Properties. Council politics. Which humans could disappear without trouble. Which ones had to be compromised first. Which officials took money. Which ones took other things. Which vampires preferred unwilling blood but wanted paperwork showing consent.”

She took a breath that shook so hard I almost reached. I stopped myself. I would not interrupt her testimony with my need to comfort what I could not undo.

“They laughed,” she whispered. “That was the part I hated most some days. Not the pain. The laughter. Like I was the joke.”

The crack came like a gunshot. Taras’s chair exploded beneath his hands. Both wooden arms snapped clean off as he surged to his feet, fragments striking the floor and skidding beneath the table. The violence of it tore through the room without warning. Grace flinched hard, shoulders jerking up, the mug clattering against the saucer as coffee sloshed over the rim.

Taras froze. Instantly. His jaw locked so tightly I heard bone strain. For one terrible second, no one moved. Then Taras looked at Grace. Whatever he saw on her face destroyed the fury in his posture and left only discipline, grief, and shame. He set the broken chair arms down on the table with deliberate care. One. Then the other. The wood made soft, obscene sounds when it touched the polished surface.

“Forgive me,” he said.

His voice was low and stripped thin.

Grace’s breathing had gone unsteady. Her fingers hovered near the mug, but did not touch it.

Taras came around the table slowly. Every step was visible. Every movement announced itself before it happened. When he reached her chair, he did not stand over her. He lowered himself to one knee. Then bowed his head. Silver hair fell forward, hiding part of his face. His hands rested open on his thighs, palms up. The Shadow Hand of the Western Crown knelt before the woman Lucian had made property.

“You are the mate of my king,” he said, each word placed with careful precision. “My queen. My sister. This will not go unpunished.”

Grace stared down at him. Tears clung to her lashes. Her mouth had parted slightly, but no sound came at first. The office seemed to hold itself around that kneeling figure. Remy did not move. I did not move. Even the lights seemed less harsh. Taras remained bowed. Not demanding absolution for frightening her. Not asking her to tend to his anger. Only placing his vow at her feet. Grace lifted her hand. It trembled in the space above him. Then, with a care that made something in my chest tear open, she passed her fingers once over the crown of his head. Taras closed his eyes.

“I believe you,” she whispered.

His shoulders moved. Just once.

“And thank you,” she added.

He remained kneeling for one more breath, then rose. The motion was smooth, controlled, almost formal. He did not return to the broken chair. He crossed to the window instead and stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him, looking out over the dark Las Vegas skyline. His reflection in the glass was pale and still.

I knew my twin. He had gone to the window because if he looked at Grace another second, he might break something that could not be replaced.

Then I moved. Not because I had planned to. Not because the crown demanded ceremony. The motion came from somewhere beneath the king, beneath the son, beneath every title that had ever been placed upon me and every command I had ever given.

I came around the table and turned Grace’s chair toward me. Slowly enough that she could stop me. She did not. Then I knelt before her. Both knees on the floor. The posture belonged to no court ritual of the West. Kings did not kneel in their own offices before witnesses. Sons of Kazimir Kozlov did not place their throats within reach of newly made vampires whose grief had already lifted furniture and cracked wood.