Page 65 of Nikolay

One unhurried pass from cheekbone to jaw, cool skin against overheated skin, so light it should not have burned, and yet it did. It felt less like a caress than a claim he had not earned and knew it, which somehow made it worse. My breath caught. I hated that he heard it.

Then he stepped back.

Distance rushed in so abruptly it made me aware of how narrow the hallway really was, how loud the fluorescent lights had gotten, how hard my heart was trying to punch through my ribs.

Nikolay straightened his jacket with one efficient tug at the front, composure settling back over him piece by piece like a man redressing after doing something he had no intention of regretting.

“I’ll let you get back to work, Madelyn.”

He said my full name like he had every right to it.

Then he turned and walked away down the corridor, broad back receding under the bad white lights, and left me standing there with my cheek still warm where he had touched it and my ruined black lace tucked over his heart.

By the time I made it back to the main floor, I had rebuilt myself the way women usually did—badly, impressively, and one breath at a time.

The purple light met me first, softening the world back into vice and shadow. Then the music, low and steady under the floorboards. Then the smell of Obsidian again: liquor and perfume, heat and blood and expensive restraint. My tray waited where I’d left it on the bar. Kyra slid it toward me without comment, though one quick look from her took in enough of my face that I knew she could tell I’d gone on break one person and come back another.

“Thanks,” I said and gave her Ironwood’s order.

She tipped her chin once and quickly placed their order on my tray.

I picked it up and stepped back into my section.

Everything felt a fraction too sharp for a minute. The edge of the tray against my palm. The brush of my skirt against my thighs. The memory of cool fingers on my cheek. The hot, impossible knowledge of what sat in the inner pocket of Nikolay’s suit jacket right this very second. But there was comfort in the brutality of a task. A woman could survive almost anything for the length of a shift if enough people needed refills.

I had just set the tray on the Ironwood table when Sage stood and motioned for me to join him just beyond their booth.

Not dramatically. Just enough to pull me beyond earshot of the others while leaving me room to move if I wanted it.

“Madelyn.”

He said my name like a gentleman instead of a trap.

His dark eyes moved over my face once, attentive and exact. The read of an alpha. Not invasive. Not careless either. He was looking for changes, and I suspected he had found them.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked.

The question hit me almost hard enough to laugh.

Twice in one night.

Twice from men built like authority and danger, and still they could not have sounded less alike if the Goddess herself had tuned them. From Sage, it held concern without pressure. Warmth. The simple courtesy of a man who had noticed something and chosen to ask rather than corner.

I shifted the tray higher on my hip. “Long night.”

His mouth moved slightly, acknowledging the dodge for what it was. “So it is.”

I could have left it there. Probably should have. But something about him made honesty easier to portion out in clean little slices.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just had to step away for a minute.”

“All right.”

He accepted the answer without making me prove it. I appreciated that enough to feel it in my throat.

Then he glanced toward the curve of the booth where his pack lounged in easy conversation and looked back at me.

“Have you made up your mind about the run?”