Page 85 of Nikolay

“Nikolay,” he said, and there was no mockery in my name, only plain regard, “there is no shame in falling in love with your mate.”

The sentence landed in me with almost physical force.

Perhaps because some hidden and deeply stupid part of me had still expected judgment. Not from him, exactly. From the world I had built inside my own head. From old prejudice dressed up as discernment. From the version of myself that had spent far too long assuming refinement and suitability were moral virtues rather than preferences of breeding and fear.

Bohdan went on.

“In fact,” he said, “it is likely the best possible thing that could happen to you.”

I let out a short breath through my nose. “You make catastrophe sound medicinal.”

“I am serious.”

“I know.”

He held my gaze. “Good. Then hear the rest. You are damn lucky.”

I said nothing.

“You found her,” he said. “And after all your elaborate resistance, after all the nonsense you have inflicted on yourself and unfortunately on her, you did not merely discover a bond. You discovered the woman herself. Do you understand how rare that is? Half the supernatural world spends its life mistaking possession for devotion and instinct for intimacy. If you have managed to arrive at actual love, I suggest gratitude before self-recrimination.”

“That sounds suspiciously wise.”

“Do not spread it around.”

Despite myself, I laughed once. It was brief and not especially cheerful, but it cleared something from my chest all the same.

Bohdan reached for his glass, then rose and crossed to the sideboard where the decanters lived under their own pool of lamplight. He refilled the amber liquor with a practiced hand and returned to his desk without offering me any. The omission was not discourtesy. It was knowledge. I would not have taken it.

He settled back into his chair and said, “Now. Having established that you are in love with the wolf and will survive the knowledge somehow, tell me why exactly Sage Lynch has you looking like a man who expects to be stabbed at a formal dinner.”

I leaned my head back once against the chair and stared for a moment at the ceiling molding as if answers might have been carved there.

“Because he arrived too neatly,” I said. “Because I dislike timing that aligns itself so politely with opportunity. Because Obsidian is not the kind of place his pack should want unless they want something from it. Because he joined two months ago, his sister came to work for us, and now Maddie is under his eye with a speed I do not trust.”

Bohdan listened without interruption.

“And because he watched her,” I said. “Not casually. Not as one notices a pretty woman on the floor. He watched her as if marking a perimeter around her in his own mind.”

The old, ugly heat stirred again under my ribs at the memory. Maddie moving through the room with her tray and composed smile. Sage’s gaze following. The alpha’s stillness so complete it had become its own form of touch.

“I know predators,” I said. “He was not here simply to drink.”

“No,” Bohdan said. “I do not think he was.”

That mattered more than I liked. Agreement from him meant my instincts were not merely jealousy seeking respectable language.

“He troubles you as well,” I said.

“Yes,” Bohdan rolled the base of his glass once against the desk blotter. “Not enough for a conclusion. More than enough for attention.”

“On what basis?”

“On the same one you are using, unfortunately.” His mouth flattened. “Pattern. Timing. Presentation. Men who build cults of taste around themselves are rarely content with what is already theirs.”

“That is a cutting way to describe a separatist alpha.”

“It is a generous one.”