Page 148 of Maksym

“Correct. Diplomats don’t get to say ‘I told you so’ over avoidable injuries nearly as often.”

Remy leaned back in her chair. “I have missed family breakfast theater. It pairs well with impending violence.”

“Everything pairs with impending violence in this house,” Taras said.

Tilden entered on the heels of that statement with a rolling cart so perfectly arranged it might have been entered in a culinary contest.

Blood wine in dark crystal decanters occupied the top shelf, warm glasses beside them. Coffee carafes steamed gently, one regular, one darker than sin, each labeled with small silver tags. A plate of pastries sat beneath a linen cloth—croissants, small fruit tarts, something glazed with honey. Beside them were covered dishes that Tilden uncovered with solemn efficiency: barely-seared breakfast meats, rich and red at the center, arranged in portions that suggested he had considered protein requirements by species, appetite, and temperament.

No one commented on how perfectly he had accounted for everyone.

That told me they were used to it. I was not.

I reached for my chair arms, intending to rise for coffee. Maksym’s hand touched mine lightly.

“I have it,” he said.

“I can get my own coffee.”

“I know.”

He stood anyway.

Maksym crossed to the cart. He selected a cup, poured coffee, added a small pour of cream and one sugar without asking. Exactly right.

My throat tightened before I could tell it not to.

He returned and set the cup beside my laptop, then placed a pastry on a small plate and positioned it within reach. He did not make a ceremony of it. Did not look around to see who had witnessed the gesture. Did not soften his voice and ask whether I needed anything else in front of his family like care had to become performance to count.

He simply sat.

Lucia lowered her mug. “Maksym serving coffee. I should have brought a camera.”

Doc looked at her over his own cup. “Now, Lucia, don’t tease a man for developing manners.”

“My brother had manners before this. They were merely weaponized.”

Maksym looked at her. “I can still weaponize them.”

“I know. That is why I am drinking coffee before provoking you further.”

Remy reached for a pastry and inspected it as if it might contain secrets. “Priorities before battle: caffeine, carbohydrates, blood, and whatever emotional revelation made a western king memorize cream and sugar.”

I took my cup to hide the smile that threatened to become laughter.

“It was not a revelation,” Maksym said.

“No?” Remy’s amber-gold eyes glinted for a second, magic or mischief or both. “My mistake, Your Grace. I’m sure you retain the coffee preferences of every federal prosecutor you rescue from pavement.”

The table went quiet enough to notice the edge in the joke.

Not cruel. Remy’s gaze flicked to me, measuring whether she had stepped too close to a wound.

I surprised both of us by laughing softly.

“Only the difficult ones,” I said.

Maksym’s eyes came to me.