Page 113 of Maksym

Her gaze moved over him, quick but not rude. “Your demonstration was... educational.”

Bohdan inclined his head. “I’ll accept that adjective.”

“It wasn’t meant as an insult.”

“I did not take it as one.”

“She means,” I said, perhaps too dryly, “that she is not accustomed to watching you explain consent to a room full of aroused immortals.”

Grace glanced at me. “That is definitely part of what I meant.”

Bohdan’s smile deepened, but his eyes remained on mine. “Someone must maintain standards in this family.”

“I maintain standards.”

“You maintain armies, accounts, treaties, vengeance schedules, and the dietary preferences of people you pretend not to worry about.” He turned back to Grace. “Standards are different.”

Grace made a small sound. Dangerous. Almost laughter.

I looked at Bohdan with the warning only brothers recognized.

He ignored it with the pleasure of a man who had been ignoring me for centuries.

Then the humor left his face by degrees.

“I need both of you in my office,” he said.

Grace’s posture shifted. Business had entered. She recognized it at once.

“Now?” I asked.

Bohdan looked at me.

It was not a challenge. Not exactly. Bohdan challenged with a smile, a glass of wine, and seventeen facts assembled in an order designed to make resistance embarrassing. This look was cleaner.

“Yes.”

The single word told me enough. I nodded.

Grace noticed that I did not argue. Her eyes moved from Bohdan to me, then away, absorbing what my compliance said about his standing. Bohdan was not the warrior among us. He was not the mediator, not the shadow hand, not the western king. He was the son who knew what passed through Obsidian before most people knew they had revealed anything at all.

When Bohdan said now, he had a reason.

“Come,” he said, turning.

We followed.

Bohdan moved before us with his usual unhurried precision. I watched my brother’s shoulders. He was annoyed. More than annoyed. Bohdan did not like being surprised inside his own domain, and I had arrived with a newly turned mate, a blood slave conspiracy attached to Lucian Devereux, Council implications, and insufficient briefing. He would forgive the lack of ceremony. Eventually.

He would not forgive being unprepared.

Grace glanced up at me as we walked.

“What?” I asked quietly.

“You listened to him.”

“Yes.”