Page 22 of Maksym

“I decided death did not give me time to argue philosophy.”

“That’s not philosophy.” Her voice steadied as anger gave it structure. “That’s bodily integrity.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” She leaned forward now, and the robe slipped slightly at one shoulder before she jerked it closed again. “You keep saying dying as if that ends the inquiry. It doesn’t. People die every day. People refuse treatment every day. People make irrational decisions while bleeding out every day, and we still pretend the line matters because without it, power gets to call itself mercy whenever it wants.”

I watched her, struck silent by something close to disbelief. She was shaking. Starved. Newly made. Terrified of the hunger awakening in her own blood. And still she built an indictment out of the wreckage of herself with more discipline than half the barristers I had watched plead before immortal courts.

“Grace—”

“No. You said I said please. Do you know what that sounds like?” Her mouth tightened. “It sounds like every defendant who ever said she wanted it because she stopped fighting. Like every man who confused exhaustion with agreement. Like every monster who thought survival responses counted as permission.”

A muscle twitched in my jaw. I accepted that blow too.

“I am not those who tortured you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied the parallel.”

“I identified the risk.” Her eyes flashed. “There’s a difference.”

Against all reason, something in me answered that. Not amusement. Not pleasure. Recognition of a blade worth respecting.

“You were a prosecutor,” I said.

She went still. I had heard the conversation she had with Millie. Even if I hadn’t, I’d be likely to know it by the way Grace arranged accusations to know it now.

Grace’s brows drew together. “What?”

“Vampire hearing. I caught bits and pieces of your conversation with Millie.”

Her lips parted. Annoyance. For one strange moment she looked younger than she had since the doorway, startled out of anger into the memory of the bath.

Then suspicion returned. “I guess you’re going to do a background check on me.”

“I will.”

“Of course you will.” She didn’t try to hide the bitterness in her reply. “Comforting.”

“My people need to find out what happened to you and the man who held a blood slave in my territory’s orbit. He brought you to my city. He walked beneath my laws with your blood on his hands. I will know everything.”

“Your laws.” Her hand lifted, then dropped. “God. Of course.”

“My father outlawed blood slavery over a century ago. I enforce that law in the West. What was done to you was not merely cruel. It was treason against the crown.”

“I’m so glad my suffering has jurisdictional significance.”

The sarcasm was ragged. Beautiful in the way lightning was beautiful when it struck too close to the house.

“It has personal significance,” I said.

That made her expression change again.

“Why?” she asked.

One word. Not shouted. Not argued. It slipped between us with more danger than all the others.