I think of how carefully Damian keeps his distance, how ruthlessly he pulls me close. The contradiction of him is a gravity I can’t escape.
Sera begins adjusting my hair, gathering it loosely.
“I know what this is like,” she murmurs. “Being pulled into something you didn’t choose.”
“Did you ever get used to it?”
“Never.” She pins a curl behind my ear. “I adapted. Grew armor where softness used to be.”
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Did it make you stronger?”
“It made me survive,” she says. “Strength came later.”
There’s a quiet understanding between us.
A knock sounds at the door.
Mikhail steps inside.
Of all Damian’s inner circle, Mikhail is the one who unnerves me most. He carries authority like a second skin, every gesture controlled, every word weighted.
But today, he looks… restrained. Focused. A general inspecting the front lines.
His gaze sweeps over me like he’s measuring the steel in me, not the silk.
“You wear the Ignatov name well,” he says.
“I haven’t taken it yet,” I reply before I can stop myself.
Sera gives me a discreet nudge, but Mikhail only inclines his head, considering me with a flicker of something like respect.
“You will,” he says. “And once you do, this family is yours.” There’s something dangerous in the way he says family. Something vast and ancient. He adds, quietly, “Family does not survive by softness.”
The words settle on my shoulders like a mantle, a blessing twisted into a warning.
I swallow.
“I wasn’t planning on being soft.”
A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, as though my answer pleases him. Then he steps aside.
“I’ll leave you to prepare. The ceremony will begin soon.”
When he leaves, the room feels smaller, like the walls absorbed his presence and need a moment to cool.
Sera exhales dramatically. “Well. He likes you.”
“That was liking?”
“In Ignatov language, yes.” She adjusts the waist of my dress. “He didn’t threaten you or assign a guard to watch you breathe incorrectly.”
“High standards.”
“Oh, incredibly.”
My pulse thunders in my throat.
The ceremony.
