Page 99 of Nikolay

Sage was on his feet before I had fully registered moving.

“Madelyn,” he said, and there was enough softness in it to make the others glance between us. “You should sleep.”

I almost argued out of reflex. Then I caught myself mid-breath and laughed quietly instead. “You know, that may be the smartest thing anybody’s said all night.”

“I have my moments.”

He came around the table and offered me his arm.

That should not have looked as formal as it did in front of a fire after a wolf run with half his shirt still clinging damp at the collar, but somehow it did. The old-fashioned courtesy of it might have felt theatrical from another man. From him, it landed with unnerving ease.

I took it.

“Goodnight, y’all,” I said to the room.

A chorus answered me—goodnights, sleep well, don’t let Sloan steal your shoes, come eat breakfast if you wake human and hungry. I smiled at all of it, more touched than I had expected to be by people I’d known for such a short time.

Then Sage guided me toward the wide staircase.

The house had quieted considerably by then. Firelight and low lamps did most of the work now, leaving the upper hallways in a softer gold than the rooms below. My bags had been taken to my room I supposed. Our steps on the stairs seemed louder than they should have. Or maybe I only noticed them because conversation and heat and company had fallen behind us, leaving a strange little pocket of privacy in their wake.

I was tired enough that the banister looked momentarily inviting as a place to curl up and die, but not so tired I stopped being aware of the man at my side.

Sage did not crowd me on the climb. He let me set the pace. Still, his nearness was there. Warm. Male. Intent in some quiet way I could feel without looking.

“You fit beautifully with them,” he said as we reached the landing.

“With your pack?”

He looked at me. “Yes.”

I should have said something flippant. Instead, I only answered, “It felt good.”

“I know.”

There was no arrogance in the words. That made them hit harder.

My room sat at the end of the hall in a guest wing that probably cost more to maintain annually than most Texas families made in five years. Sage opened the door for me before I reached for the handle. The room beyond had already been turned down for the night—lamps lowered, curtains drawn, the bed opened wide with folded blankets at the foot.

“Thank you,” I said, stepping inside.

I had barely turned back toward him when he followed me in and closed the door behind himself.

Not hard. Just enough to make the latch click.

Something in me came alert at once.

I opened my mouth—maybe to say goodnight again, maybe to ask if he needed something—and never got the chance. He crossed the room in two strides and had me with my back against the wall before my thoughts caught up, one hand braced beside my head, his body close enough to change the temperature of the air.

My hands went flat against his chest.

Not pulling him in.

Not shoving him away.

Stopping.

His shirt was still warm from the run. Beneath it his body felt hard and alive and too near.