Page 92 of Maksym

“Most wise people do.”

Behind us, Yuri had already opened the rear cargo area. He removed nothing. Within moments, two members of the household staff appeared from a side entrance and began unloading without fuss or noise. Remy had taken a position near Yuri. She acted as my official security when we traveled. Tilden inclined his head toward the open doors.

“Your luggage is being taken to the appropriate wing, Your Grace. Lady Marlow’s rooms have been prepared near yours.”

Near mine.

Not adjoining, unless she chose it. Not distant, unless she required space. My father’s doing, likely. Or Devon’s. Perhaps both, though the subtlety suggested my father and the mercy suggested his wife.

Grace heard the phrasing. Her gaze flicked to me once, then away.

I said only, “Thank you.”

We entered the foyer. The estate did not reveal itself gently.

The foyer rose three stories in dark wood, pale stone, and shadow. A great staircase curved upward from the far wall, its banister carved in black walnut polished by generations of hands that had no right to age and servants who did. High above, an iron chandelier hung, each flame-shaped bulb dimmed to a warm glow. Old portraits watched from the paneled walls. My father had placed weapons among them as naturally as paintings: sabers, axes, spears, an ancient crossbow whose bolts had once drunk witch-fire and worse.

Grace crossed the threshold and paused. I let her.

The air inside held my father’s house completely: beeswax, old books, stone, fires, and beneath it all the clean metallic thread of vampire blood moving through a residence built to protect it. Wards brushed against us. They knew me, welcomed me, measured Grace, recognized my mark in her blood, and withdrew with something like a bow.

Her breath caught. Not from the wards, I thought. Or not only.

My father entered from the left corridor. Kazimir Kozlov had never needed announcement.

He moved with deliberate economy, each step purposeful, nothing wasted. His long black hair fell past his shoulders, satin-dark except for the faint gray at his temples, which had nothing to do with age and everything to do with his refusal to appear less burdened than he was. His tailored suit was charcoal so deep it was nearly black; the jacket open. Faint ancient scars crossed the pale skin there, thin lines like ghost-script written by blades that should have known better than to touch him.

His face was all carved angles: high cheekbones, straight nose, mouth made for command more than comfort. His pale blue eyes found me first, assessed, approved in the space of a heartbeat, and moved to Grace.

She nearly stumbled.

I felt the shift in her weight before she could hide it. My hand lifted without permission. She caught herself at once, shoulders straightening, chin rising in a way that made my chest ache with admiration.

My father saw everything. He pretended not to see that.

“Welcome home, my son,” Kazimir said.

I inclined my head. “Father.”

Then he turned fully to Grace.

“Gracelyn Marlow,” he said, with a warmth so carefully measured it could not be mistaken for manipulation. “It is my honor to receive you in my home.”

Grace looked at him as if every story I had told her had failed by not being impossible enough.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice held steady. “Your Majesty.”

My father’s mouth softened.

“Here, Kazimir will do, if you can bear the informality.” His accent wrapped the words in old winter. “Titles multiply in this family if one allows them unchecked.”

Grace blinked once, then said, “I’ll do my best, but I reserve the right to panic politely.”

“A sensible reservation.”

I stared at him. He glanced behind me.

“Taras.”