Page 47 of Dark King Daddy

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Kiryl sounded angry.

Daniil did not correct him. He smoothed the coat once over Kiryl’s shoulder.

“Stay near me.”

Then he returned to the mourners.

Kiryl watched him go.

My chest tightened. A coat collar meant nothing. A hand on a shoulder meant nothing.

I told myself that and kept watching.

The service began.

The Sokolov siblings approached the coffin before the other mourners.

Daniil went first.

He crossed himself. Bent. Kissed the icon and then his father’s forehead, his face revealing nothing.

Nikita followed. His composure broke only when he straightened. His mouth pulled tight, and he looked away too fast.

Arkady did not move.

He stood at the end of the front pew with both hands closed at his sides. The line stalled behind him.

No one urged him forward.

Arkady could enter a room where armed men waited and look bored. He could threaten someone with a glance and make it feel like a promise already kept.

He could not take three steps toward his father’s coffin.

Daniil returned to him. He did not speak. Instead, he clasped Arkady’s shoulder.

Arkady looked at his brother — at his pakhan.

Something passed between them. Permission, perhaps. Or an order gentle enough to accept.

Arkady moved. One step. Then another.

Daniil walked beside him to the coffin.

I looked down at my gloves.

The possibility took shape against my will.

Perhaps Daniil’s control was not emptiness. Perhaps it was labor.

Perhaps he held himself still because everyone around him needed somewhere to place their weight.

That idea disturbed me more than indifference had.