Page 44 of Dark King Daddy

Not my dress. Not the room behind me. Me.

The memory of his arm around my waist struck without warning. His body against mine in the corridor. His hand spread over the green dress. His voice telling me Anton did not look as good in it.

Then darkness.

Shots.

Blood.

I hated that the first memory came attached to the second. I hated more that some part of me still separated them.

Daniil offered his hand. I took it.

His grip was warm. Firm. Careful.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

Formal words. Proper words.

“Thank you.”

He released me.

Arkady came next. He did not offer empty comfort. He clasped my hand once.

“Mikhail was a strong man,” he said.

From Arkady, it was praise.

“Thank you.”

Nikita bowed his head. “Ksenia.”

His usual smile was absent.

Kiryl reached me and looked as though he might say something. Nothing came. His eyes flicked toward the coffin again.

I touched his arm.

“You don’t have to,” I said.

His throat moved. He nodded.

Yelena stopped in front of me. For a moment we only looked at each other.

She knew what it was to lose Lev. That grief was not simple. Mine should have been simpler. Papa had loved me without crushing me. He had used me, yes. Needed me. Raised me to make sacrifice feel like affection.

But I had never doubted that I was his daughter before I was an asset.

Yelena could not say the same.

She took both my hands.

“I am so fucking sorry,” she said.

The profanity in church should have shocked me.

Instead, my mouth trembled.