Page 4 of Maksym

I stood beside the bed with my hands open at my sides and made myself harmless in every way a creature like me could pretend to be. My fangs withdrew. I kept my shoulders still. I lowered my chin a fraction so my gaze would not press on hers like a command.

Inside me, the bond raged. Go to her. Hold her. Kill whatever taught her to look at you like that. I did none of it.

My kingdom had seen me execute traitors without raising my voice. I had faced demons over gaming tables where fortunes and futures vanished on a turn of cards. I had dragged noble houses into obedience and made old vampires remember that law was not a suggestion. None of it required the discipline it took to stand three feet from my terrified mate and do nothing.

She made herself smaller against the headboard, mouth trembling around breaths she no longer needed in the same way. Her eyes stayed fixed on me.

I thanked the Goddess under my breath that she was still too weak to get far.

And because the Goddess had apparently developed a taste for cruelty, even gratitude felt like a sin.

She stayed pressed to the headboard, knees drawn tight, one hand at her throat and the other curled in the sheet as if linen could anchor her to the world. Her eyes had begun to change again. The wild blackness of transition had not left them, but awareness moved beneath it in jagged pieces. She looked at the lamp and flinched from its glow. Looked at the drapes as if something might emerge from behind them. Looked at my hands.

I opened them farther. It did not help. Of course, it did not. A monster showing empty palms remained a monster.

A rustle of fabric sounded near the door.

I had known Taras was there. Not in the thinking part of myself, perhaps, but in the old twin-sense that had lived in me longer than language. He had entered with us, silent as a blade drawn under velvet, and taken position where he could observe the room, the door, the hall beyond, and me. Especially me.

My brother had seen me injured. He had seen me enraged. He had seen me covered in ash and blood after battles. He had seen me sit through coronation rites with my face carved into something suitable for history. But he had never seen the mate bond tear through me while the woman it claimed looked at me as if I were the end of all mercy.

Taras stepped forward.

It was not much. One controlled movement from the door into the room. Fluid. Unhurried. His silver hair had fallen across his forehead, and his hazel eyes missed nothing: her posture, the blood on the sheets, my open wrist already closing, the cracked headboard, the distance between us.

His intent was obvious. Contain the situation. Help.

My head snapped toward him. The sound that left me was not a word.

It came from low in my chest, stripped of court and education and every discipline I had spent centuries building. A growl. Low. Absolute. The kind of warning that did not ask to be understood because blood understood it before thought did.

Taras stopped. For one suspended second, the room belonged to that sound.

She jerked against the headboard, eyes flying wider, and regret cut through me even before the growl faded. I had frightened her again. I had done exactly what I had been standing still to avoid.

Taras’s expression did not change. That was one of his more infuriating talents. His hands lifted slightly, palms angled outward in a small, deliberate gesture of non-aggression. Not surrender. Taras did not surrender unless there was a strategy in it. This was communication. To me. To her. To whatever feral thing had borrowed my throat.

“I am not a threat to her,” he said quietly.

His voice held its usual measured precision, each word placed exactly where it would do the least damage. The sound should have steadied me. It had steadied me through council disputes, assassination attempts, the tedious aftermath of nobles discovering that treason came with invoices.

The bond hated his voice.

“She needs calm,” Taras continued. “The transition will distort sensation and memory. If she bolts, she may injure herself. If hunger spikes again, she may injure someone else. You need to let me help.”

I knew he was right. That was the worst of it.

Taras was almost always right in emergencies, because he did not waste energy resenting facts. My mate had new strength gathering under old starvation. Her senses would be tearing open one by one. Sound would come too loud. Light too sharp. Her own skin foreign. Her last human memories were agony, captivity, vampires.

And I had just fed her my blood after biting her throat. I knew all of this. I still moved between my brother and the bed.

The action was smooth enough to pass for decision rather than instinct. I placed my body in the line between Taras and her, shoulders squared, chin lowered. My hands remained open, but there was nothing harmless about me now. The shadows in the corners of the room thickened, answering before I called. The lamp flickered once.

Taras looked at me. I looked back.

Four centuries of trust stood between us, and the mate bond stepped over it as if it were chalk on stone.

“Do not,” I said.