Chapter 13
Auralia
Myhandswouldn'tstopshaking.
I noticed it first when I tried to button the cardigan—the fourth outfit I'd attempted in the last twenty minutes. My fingers fumbled against the tiny pearl buttons, slipping, missing, turning a simple task into something impossible. The cream cashmere joined the rejected pile on Maks's bed: a silk blouse (too formal), a fitted sweater (too casual), a button-down I'd stolen from his closet (too obvious).
The sweater dress was my final attempt.
Soft grey wool that skimmed my thighs, the kind of fabric that didn't overwhelm my skin. Maks had said it brought out my eyes when I'd worn it three days ago, his fingers tracing the hem while we watched a movie I couldn't remember. The memory should have been comforting. Instead, it made me want to tear the dress off and try something else.
"They're going to hate me."
The words came out before I could stop them. Third time I'd said it in the last ten minutes. The bedroom mirror showed me a woman who looked like she was about to face a firing squad—pale, wide-eyed, hands twisting together in a way that would leave marks.
The collar sat warm against my throat, hidden beneath the dress's mock neck. I touched it through the fabric. Felt the leather, the metal ring. Reminded myself what it meant.
Mine. His. Ours.
It didn't help.
"They're going to love you."
Maks appeared in the mirror behind me. He was dressed simply—dark jeans, a charcoal sweater that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. His reflection met my eyes, steady and certain in a way I couldn't match.
"You don't know that." My voice came out smaller than I intended. "I'm—you know what I'm like. The social thing. The not-reading-cues thing. The being-too-much thing. Plus, I’m just like, weird."
He turned me to face him. His hands were warm on my shoulders, grounding me in a way that made my spinning thoughts slow slightly.
"Everyone’s weird. Sophie was a ballerina who got sold at auction," he said quietly. "Maya was a surgeon hiding from a murder charge. Trust me, Ptichka—you'll fit right in."
The words landed somewhere unexpected. Not comfort exactly. More like context.
"Your family collects damaged people?"
His smile was soft. "My family collects survivors. There's a difference."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to sink into the certainty in his voice and let it carry me through whatever was about to happen. But my brain was already running scenarios—all theways I could say the wrong thing, miss a social cue, embarrass him in front of the brothers who ran a criminal empire and the women who loved them.
"Ghost is settled?" I asked, deflecting.
"Fed, walked, currently destroying that new puzzle toy with extreme prejudice. He'll be fine for a few hours."
A few hours. I had to survive a few hours of being charming and normal and not-weird around people who could probably kill me with their bare hands.
The thought should have been terrifying. Somehow, it was almost reassuring. At least the stakes were clear.
The car ride was a blur of Brooklyn streets and my own racing pulse.
Maks drove with one hand, the other threaded through mine on my thigh. His thumb traced slow circles against my palm—the same soothing pattern he'd used when I'd been nonverbal in his kitchen, when words had failed and only touch remained. The familiarity of it should have helped.
I couldn't stop bouncing my knee.
"Tell me about them again," I said. "So I'm prepared."
"Nikolai is the oldest. Pakhan. Runs everything, though you'd never know it from how he is with Sophie. He's intense but fair." A pause. "Don't mistake his quietness for coldness. He sees everything."
"Great. No pressure."
