Page 66 of Maksym

Remy’s expression changed at that. Something like admiration moved through her eyes and stayed there.

“The guard had a routine,” I said. “He checked the door every hour when Lucian was out. At first, he stood in the doorway. Later, he came inside. Then he sat on the chair near the dresser. Then he started talking.”

My stomach tightened. I kept my voice flat.

“He wanted a taste of the master’s prize.”

Maksym did not move, but the shadows near the corners of the chamber seemed to thicken. I noticed because I could not help noticing everything now. Darkness obeyed him in a way men should not have been comfortable with. It gathered like hounds awaiting permission.

“He had asked before,” I added. “Lucian had refused him in front of me once and told him he did not share his best things with kennel dogs. The guard hated that. He also liked it. Some people can turn humiliation into appetite if you leave them alone with it long enough.”

Remy murmured something under her breath. It was not English. It sounded like a curse.

“The bed had slats,” I said. “One near the footboard had cracked weeks before. I noticed it because I noticed everything that changed in that room. The crack was small at first. Then one night I worked it loose while pretending to sleep.”

The memory returned through my fingers before it reached my mind.

Wood under nails. My breath held so long my chest hurt. The guard’s footsteps beyond the door. The taste of old blood in my mouth. The terror that one tiny sound would bring Lucian back before the wood came free.

“I hid it under the mattress,” I said. “Not well. There was no well. There was only good enough because they did not think I had the energy to hide anything worth finding.”

“How long?” Maksym asked.

His voice was too quiet.

“To sharpen it?”

He nodded once.

“Days.”

The fire popped softly.

“I used the tile floor,” I said. “Travertine. There was one rough place near the wall where a corner had chipped. I ground the end of the slat against it whenever I could. A little at a time. During the day, if the house was empty. At night, under the blanket. After feedings, when they thought I was too weak to move. It was slow. Stupidly slow.”

My fingers remembered the splinters.

“I tore my palms open twice,” I said. “I wrapped the blood in the sheet and slept on that side so they would think it came from somewhere else. The sound was the problem. Wood against stone. Scrape, pause. Scrape, pause. I learned to time it with the air conditioning kicking on. Plumbing. A car outside. The guard watching videos on his phone.”

Taras had stopped writing again.

His attention was on me wholly now, not as a note-taker, not as the kneeling brother who had vowed vengeance, but as a strategist appreciating a weapon built from nothing.

“The point was not elegant,” I said. “It wasn’t a stake from some movie. It was a jagged piece of bedframe with one end narrowed enough to enter flesh if I put enough force behind it.”

“You knew where to strike?” Remy asked.

“No,” I said. “I knew where not to miss.”

Something like approval flashed in her eyes.

“The guard came in after Lucian left. I heard him unlock the outer door. Heard him pause in the hallway. Heard the little laugh he made when he thought he was about to get away with something.” I swallowed. “I put the slat under the blanket beside my thigh.”

The room narrowed around the memory.

“He sat first,” I said. “He liked to pretend he was deciding. He told me Lucian would never know. He said I should be grateful because he would make it quick if I behaved. He said he had been patient.”

Maksym’s fangs were visible now. Only slightly. Enough.