Page 173 of Dark King Daddy

I felt sick with worry.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand. The wobbly nightstand. It slid two inches to the left before I grabbed it.

Daniil’s name.

“Little One.”

His voice came through clear and steady, and behind it I could hear a different acoustics—a larger room, hard surfaces, the ambient noise of people moving through a space that was not ours.

“Are you at Orlov Marine?”

“Yes, baby. I’m standing behind your father’s desk.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under my weight and the phone pressed against my ear and I could hear him breathing and behind him, distantly, I could hear Anton.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

The question came before anything else. Before the building, before the captains, before the politics of what this meant for the alliance and the war and the forty-eight-hour deadline. Before all of it. Are you hurt.

“No. Neither of us. Arkady has a bruise on his hand — he went through a door and the door lost, but it put up a fight. Anton is untouched.”

“Roman?”

“Standing in the loading bay. His lip is swollen. He refused medical attention and a chair. He’s directing the returning staff with his arms crossed.”

I heard Anton’s voice in the background — not the words, just the cadence. My brother giving orders in the building my father had built. The sound of it moved through me and I pressed my hand flat against the mattress and I breathed.

“The men who took it?” I said.

“Gone. Six. They left when they saw our numbers. Two were detained by Arkady’s team for questioning. The rest fled through the service entrance.”

“You fought them out.”

“We walked in and they left. The numbers were sufficient. The message was sufficient. Your father’s captains are arriving now—Sokolov captains too. We’re holding the meeting here, at the building, so everyone sees the alliance standing in the place Viktor tried to take.”

“Good.” I pressed my hand harder against the mattress. “That’s good.”

“Ksyusha.”

“Yes.”

“I promised I’d call from the desk.”

“You did.”

“I’m calling from the desk.”

My eyes burned. I blinked. I looked at the window where the November light came through grey and thin and ordinary, and I let the relief do what it needed to do.

“Are you eating?” I asked.

“I had coffee.”

“Coffee is not food, Daniil.”

“Coffee is a beverage. I concede the point.”

He was quiet for a moment. Was he hurt? No. He wouldn’t keep it from me.