Page 83 of Nikolay

My fingers rested on the edge of the desk.

The blood-wine beside my elbow trembled.

Just once.

A small, circular ripple moved across the dark surface of it, widening to the crystal rim with delicate violence.

I went still.

The glass had not been touched.

Telekinesis answered emotion more readily than pride enjoyed admitting, and mine had slipped leash enough to disturb a drink. It was a minor thing, laughable in another man perhaps, but I felt it as an indictment. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly through my nose. Counted the breaths in. Counted them out. The pressure inside my chest did not lessen, but it arranged itself more cleanly.

When I opened my eyes again, the surface of the wine had smoothed to perfect stillness.

I reached for my phone once more, though not for Maddie.

Amelia answered messages at all hours because she had long since accepted that the world’s indecencies rarely kept office time. I opened our thread and typed with more brevity than courtesy.

Need everything you have on Ironwood. Full report. Tonight.

I looked at the words, decided they reflected my condition accurately enough, and sent them.

Three dots did not appear. Amelia was either working already or ignoring me in the hope I might become more specific. She would do neither for long.

I set the phone down. This time I did not reach for it again.

Instead, I pushed back from the desk and stood.

Behind me the surveillance monitors cycled through their mute territories—service corridors, stair landings, the second-floor lounge, the gaming level below—each image pristine, each angle accounted for, each feed promising knowledge while giving none of what I actually wanted.

No monitor in Obsidian could show me the wolf compound outside Philadelphia.

No network of cameras could tell me whether Maddie was laughing tonight, whether she had shifted already, whether Sage Lynch stood too near her under the moon.

I left the office before imagination became a more profitable use of time than action.

Had I ventured down to the main floor tonight, I would have seen only substitutes for absence. A server carrying a tray and not Maddie. A dark-haired wolf patron and not Sage. A club functioning perfectly while the one person I wished foolishly to account for moved beyond my territory and my sight.

So I kept moving forward.

My shoes made almost no sound on the runner. The air held the scent of sandalwood, polished wood, cooled electronics, and the faint metallic trace of old magic braided into the walls. Obsidian’s wards hummed low if one listened with more than ears. I felt them tonight like fingers pressed lightly to the back of my neck, reminding me this place remained under our control even if my own thoughts did not.

Bohdan’s office sat at the far end of the administrative wing, separate enough from mine to suggest independence and near enough to imply family oversight. The door stood closed, but warm light burned beneath it in a thin gold line that cut across the dark carpet.

Good, he was still up here and hadn’t ventured down to find what indulgences he allowed himself on a nightly basis.

My hand settled on the knob. For one brief second I remained there, head bowed slightly, listening to the bass beneath the floor, the dim electrical breath of the corridor, the distant life of the club I usually understood so well.

Then I opened the door and went in.

Bohdan sat behind his desk with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled to the forearms, a cut-crystal glass of amber liquor at his elbow and two monitors open before him. He looked up once, took my measure in a glance only family could make that quickly, and said, “You look like hell.”

“I had hoped for a more flattering assessment.”

“You came to the wrong sibling for that.”

I crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite him without bothering to preserve dignity through pacing. The leather gave under my weight. Bohdan leaned back slightly, one hand still resting on the mouse, the other around his glass.