Santos’s voice dropped to a lower whisper. “She’s flesh and blood, not just some concept. You should know what you’ve done.”
“You forget yourself. You have been with my family for decades, Santos, so maybe you’ve gotten too lax. Say another word, and you won’t be standing at this door tomorrow. You know what becomes of Wardens who’ve gone rouge.” I replied softly.
Something in his face hardened to stone, but he moved out of my path.
I pushed the door open silently and entered.
The nursery wrapped around me—dim lamplight pooling across the floor, thick curtains shutting out the world, the scent of baby powder suspended in the air. Her touch was everywhere.
Selene occupied the ornate rocking chair, her body curved protectively around our son as if he were her last lifeline. Nikolai rested against her, small fingers clutching her shirt, dark curls nestled beneath her chin.
When she raised her gaze to mine, the impact of what I saw there hit harder than the bullet that nearly killed me at twenty-one.
“We need to talk,” I murmured.
A single nod. Controlled. I’d anticipated as much with our son present. She maintained a rule against conflict near him—discipline forged from childhood trauma she seldom mentioned.
I moved to her and eased Nikolai from her embrace. He shifted, settled against me, then surrendered back to sleep with a quiet exhale. I lowered him carefully into his crib, adjusted his blanket, and bent to kiss those curls I’d dreamed of seeing on my own child for as long as I could remember.
Half the nights I was supposed to be out working, I’d speed home like a man possessed, just to lie on the nursery floor in the dark. I’d press my palm against Nikolai’s back when he stirred from teething pain, feeling his tiny heartbeat hammer against my hand, counting each precious breath like it might be his last in this dangerous world we’d made for him.
I couldn’t risk the same with Selene.
One creak of floorboard and she’d be instantly awake, knife in hand before her eyes fully opened.
My fingers strangled the rail of his crib as the truth burned through me. That bastard Darius—his own grandfather—had sold my wife like property, promised her to another man, and now had designs on my son.
Myson.
Blood of my blood.
This wasn’t sanctioned Dominion business—this was treason. Selene bore my name—Kostas—a brand burned into her very existence that could never be removed. What Darius plotted violated everything sacred in our world. But then, a man who could murder his own wife in cold blood had already crossed into territory from which there was no return.
Dominion law carved it in blood: a man could discipline his wife, but never take her life. Mistresses? Fair game. I needed to hunt down every scrap of evidence, every whispered secret, every fucking breadcrumb that would let me put Darius in the ground permanently. One wrong move and this intel wouldn’t just be ammunition—it would be a grenade detonating in my own hands, shredding everything I’d built.
The gaps in my knowledge burned like acid.
No terms.
No timeline.
No trigger point.
No idea what Selene had heard echoing through that mausoleum Darius called home that made him arrogant enough to sign his own death warrant.
One truth hammered in my skull, I would carve out my own heart before laying this burden on her shoulders without the absolute certainty I could annihilate the threat. Not with the Citadel circling like vultures, rival syndicates testing ourborders. Not with Kostas shipping vessels becoming floating targets, men dying on my orders.
When I turned back, Selene had vanished like smoke. I flicked on Niko’s nightlight, plunged the rest into darkness, and pulled the door shut, my shoulder brushing past Santos without another word.
I knew where Selene would have gone—the second-floor den. I followed the same path and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
The two of us were finally alone with what I’d done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I made sure I could stand as far from him as the room allowed.
My back was almost against the built-in bookshelf, one hand gripped a sleeve of the cardigan that I’d thrown on before making my way here after leaving the nursery, my other was in the right pocket, fingers moving over the small gift my sister had made sure I had.
