I rub my cheek against Vera’s hair and look higher, past the treeline, up to the roofline and chimneys.
Ravens.
When there was just one on the windowsill after she was born, it felt odd, but almost symbolic. A Sokolov baby. A Raven’s child. Cute, in a creepy kind of way.
Now there are dozens.
Perched along the roof ridges. Swaying in the nearest trees. Hopping on the stone ledge outside the windows, tilting their heads and staring in with black, intelligent eyes. Every day there are more. Every day they watch us like they know something I do not.
Ever since I heard Gustav whisper to the first one…
I pull Vera closer, pressing a kiss to her soft, warm temple. She latches again, nursing greedily, and some of the dread eases. This part is simple. Skin against skin. Tiny hand curling against my breast. The way her whole body relaxes when she gets what she needs from me. No politics. No cards. No councils. Just a baby who does not care that her father might be losing his mind.
Footsteps sound in the corridor. My heart squeezes.
My father steps into the room.
I gasp.
He looks smaller than I remember. Or maybe it is just that I feel bigger, stretched by motherhood. His dark hair is more gray at the temples. His suit fits perfectly, as always. He takes in the nursery at a glance. The cradle. The rocking chair. The faint sound of Keira humming down the hall. Finally his gaze lands on me and my daughter.
He does not say hi. He walks straight to us like I am just a doorway to the real reason he came.
“Lil one! Let me see her,” he says, voice jubilant.
Anger flares, fast and hot. I swallow it, because Vera is against my chest and she doesn’t deserve tension in the air around her.
“Keira,” I call, forcing my voice steady. “Can you take her for a bit?”
Keira appears almost instantly, like she has been hovering just outside on purpose. She moves with her usual grace, dark hair pinned perfectly, posture elegant even in something as simple as a house dress. She smiles at my father politely, then bends to me.
I pass Vera into her arms. She holds my baby like she is made of glass and slips out, humming again in Russian under her breath.
As soon as the door closes behind her, my smile falls away.
“Outside,” I say. “Garden. Now.”
My father raises a brow but follows me as I stalk through the hallways and out into the courtyard. The summer air is warm, scented with sun-warmed stone and flowers. The roses along the side path are in full bloom, red and white and almost obscene in their beauty.
I spin on him as soon as we step by the fountain.
“I cannot believe you,” I say.
His mouth tightens. “Peighton.”
“The phone call,” I snap. “You finally admit you killed Mom and you think I’d see you again?” My voice rises. I force it back down, conscious of open windows and the chance of guards within earshot. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? I went into labor early. Early. You hurt me so hard our daughter almost didn’t make it into the world.”
He flinches at the word daughter, like he forgot that part.
“I did not want to come here,” he says quietly. “This castle. Russia. I swore I would never set foot on this land again.”
The word hits hard.Again.
I fold my arms. “What?”
“I have been here before,” he says. “Years ago. Before you knew any of this existed. Before Gustav was the Mad King. Before his father died. Before his father fucked my wife.”
Cold slides down my spine. “Gustav’s dad… slept with—”
