Page 121 of Maksym

He gave me a quick, devastating smile.

I tightened my hand around his and started forward before courage could develop objections.

I held Maksym’s hand because I wanted my first step into his family’s house after Obsidian to be mine. Because letting go out of pride would have been just another form of fear. Because if I were going to stand beside a vampire king while his ancient, terrifying family looked me over, I preferred to make one thing visible at the outset.

I was not dragged here. I had walked in. The threshold gave me a strange shiver.

Not cold. Not exactly. The wards brushed over my skin like a thousand invisible fingertips taking my measure and deciding whether I belonged in the sentence. Something in my blood responded. Maksym’s blood, maybe. Mine now, too, inconveniently. The sensation passed through me and withdrew, leaving behind the faint impression of a door bowing without opening any wider.

Inside, the grand entry hall rose around us.

I had seen it earlier, but returning at night after Obsidian altered it. The first time, the house had been myth. Now it was court.

Maksym’s hand stayed around mine. I was grateful.

I had just turned my head toward him to ask what I might expect.

She did not hesitate. She did not glance at him first for permission. She moved with the deliberate grace of a blade, leaving its sheath.

She wore a fitted black lace maxi dress that should have looked delicate, but did not. The lace shaped itself over curves and muscle with equal loyalty, elegant without being fragile. Her black curls fell loose around her shoulders in dark, glossy spirals, and her face was beautiful in a way that refused softness as an obligation. Dark eyes fixed on mine. Not cold. Not warm exactly. Assessing, yes, but with the open clarity of someone who preferred the truth even when manners complained.

She reached me before anyone introduced her and took both of my hands in hers. Both. Not my fingertips. Not a courtly air-kiss approximation. Her palms closed around mine, warm and firm.

I went still.

Maksym did too, but he did not intervene.

The woman’s eyes moved over my face, my throat, my shoulders, then back to my eyes. She saw too much. I knew it instantly. Some people looked at injury and saw weakness. Some looked and saw inconvenience. This woman looked and began building a tactical map.

But there was warmth in it. Open. Assessing. Almost fierce.

“So,” she said, her voice layered in a way I could not place at first. Eastern European bones, American South draped over them like silk that had learned to carry a knife. “You are Grace.”

“I am,” I said.

My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Her hands tightened once around mine. “Good.”

That was it. Good. As if my existence had been argued somewhere without me, and she had now ruled in favor.

I blinked. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know whether I passed something?”

Her mouth curved. Not into a smile that softened her. Into one that warned the world it would not be getting the upper hand today.

“I have not decided yet.”

“Well,” I said, “I appreciate the procedural transparency.”

The woman’s gaze flicked to Maksym for the first time. “You did not tell her I am unbearable.”

“I assumed she would discover it independently,” Maksym replied.

She looked back at me. “I am Lucia. Kazimir’s daughter.”

Kazimir’s daughter. Maksym’s sister. The woman who had saved a wolf shifter’s life with her blood and created something the supernatural world had apparently found appalling. I had heard her name. I had built a mental file around it. I had not expected black lace, iron eyes, and hands that held mine like she were checking whether I had enough strength to stand and already planning what to do if I did not.

“It’s good to meet you,” I said.