Page 112 of Maksym

Then Bohdan rounded the corner and stopped.

My youngest brother had impeccable timing when he wished, and intolerable timing when fate had decided to amuse itself.

He had changed nothing after the stage, because Bohdan rarely needed to recover from performance. Dark charcoal suit, precise shirt cuffs, hair arranged with deliberate care, amber eyes bright and assessing.

His gaze swept the scene once.

Grace against the wall.

Me too close.

The space between us charged enough that even a human with no instincts at all would have felt the air had teeth.

Bohdan’s expression changed little. It did not need to.

“Brother,” he said.

The single word was polite. It was also an indictment.

I stepped back immediately, placing a full foot of space between myself and Grace. Perhaps more. Not because I was ashamed to be near her, but because she deserved not to be introduced beneath the weight of a brother’s speculation.

“Bohdan,” I said.

His eyes moved from me to Grace with measured deliberation.

“This must be the woman I’ve heard bits and pieces about.”

The words had the shape of courtesy. The tone had edges.

Grace straightened from the wall. Her hands lowered to her sides. I heard her pulse trip once, then steady by force of will. She did not fold her arms. She did not retreat into the wall. She met Bohdan’s stare the way I suspected she had once met hostile witnesses: with polite attention and a sharpened pen hidden somewhere behind her eyes.

“This is Gracelyn Marlow,” I said. “Grace. My mate.”

Nothing more.

Not former blood slave. Not the woman Lucian kept. Not newly turned. Not prosecutor. Not survivor. Those truths were hers to offer, not mine to spend in a hallway.

Bohdan’s gaze flicked to me at the sparseness of the introduction.

Yes, little brother, I thought. I know. We will apparently be discussing my failures in communication soon.

Then Bohdan turned fully to Grace.

The irritation did not vanish, but it moved aside with discipline. When he extended his hand, the gesture carried formal warmth rather than performance. Bohdan could charm a demon into paying full price for something it had stolen yesterday, but this was not that charm. This was family manners, old court overlaid with modern ease.

“Lady Marlow,” he said. “Bohdan Kozlov. Welcome to the family.”

Grace took his hand.

His grip would have been careful. I knew him well enough to know that. Grace’s fingers rested in his only briefly before she released him.

“Thank you,” she said. “And it’s Grace, unless the club requires a title to stand in hallways.”

His mouth curved slightly. “The hallways are less formal than the throne level, but more judgmental than the bar.”

“I suspected as much.”

“A useful instinct.”