Page 197 of Maksym

“Madelyn Baucaum.”

Her drawl came clean and unapologetic, soft at the edges but not weak. Texas, steel, and a woman who had never learned the trick of making herself sound smaller to make other people comfortable.

“Do you also go by Maddie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A faint corner of my mouth wanted to move. I denied it.

“Maddie, some of what I ask you today may be difficult to discuss in front of this Council.”

Her eyes stayed on mine. “I don’t have any difficulty telling what happened in Ironwood territory that day.”

The truth spell hummed steady.

I let the answer stand for half a breath.

She continued before I could ask the next question, her voice strengthening rather than breaking. “And my mate, Prince Nikolay Kozlov, gives me all the strength I need to get through it.”

The chamber changed.

Not loudly. The old room was too disciplined for that. But every creature with a mating bond, every creature who understood soul-recognition or sacred pairing or whatever name their species gave that irrevocable tether, felt the statement land.

Across from me, Nikolay did not move. That was how I knew it hit him hardest.

His hands remained flat on the table. His jaw stayed locked. But his eyes lowered once, only once, as if the words had put a blade beneath his ribs and he had chosen to sit still around it.

I turned slightly, enough to bring the Council back to the legal line.

“Let us begin with your relationship with Prince Nikolay before you went to Ironwood territory,” I said. “You have heard prior testimony about his treatment of you at Obsidian.”

“Yes.”

“Was that testimony substantially accurate?”

Maddie’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

“Did Prince Nikolay hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He was cold. He avoided me. When he did speak to me, he could make every word feel like a door shutting in my face.” She took a breath, but her voice held. “Sometimes he looked at me like wanting me offended him.”

Nikolay’s knuckles had gone nearly white.

I did not look at him again. Not because I lacked sympathy. Because sympathy would not help him. Truth would, if anything could.

“Did his conduct cause you to question whether he wanted the bond?”

“Yes.”

“Did it make you angry?”

“Hell yes.”

Somewhere in the gallery, a wolf made a sound that might have become a laugh in a room with more mercy.