Page 97 of Maksym

“Rarely in public,” my father said.

“Because you are misunderstood.”

“My discipline is frequently mistaken for cruelty.”

Grace looked between them, and for the first time since entering Obsidian, some of the strain around her eyes eased. Their intimacy did that to rooms. It did not make my father less dangerous. It made danger choose a hearth and sit beside it.

After a short while, I offered Grace my arm.

“Come,” I said. “You should see the VIP level before the floor grows more active.”

Her eyes sharpened. “More active.”

“Yes.”

“That was not ominous enough to be reassuring.”

“I will explain anything you wish explained.”

“Dangerous promise.”

“I, too, am always honest.”

That earned me a glance. Warm for half a second before she disciplined it.

We descended by the private staircase. Guards at the entrance to the VIP section bowed us through. The second-floor lounge opened above the main floor in a sweep of dark luxury: black leather, low tables, shaded alcoves, the exclusive bar gleaming at one side, and at the center of the raised dais, two thrones.

Grace noticed them immediately.

They stood side by side, carved in dark wood and black stone, severe enough to satisfy the oldest vampire in the room and softened by the fact that Devon had once draped a ridiculous pale blanket over one arm during a late-night Council dispute and dared anyone to remove it. No blanket tonight. Only authority. Twin seats beneath purple light, visible from the floor, unreachable without permission.

Grace stared. “Thrones.”

“Yes.”

“Two of them.”

“Yes.”

“For your father and Devon.”

“Yes.”

She looked at me. “You understand that I am from Tennessee, right? We had recliners.”

“I have encountered recliners.”

“Did you survive?”

“With difficulty.”

Her mouth twitched.

I guided her toward the seating adjacent to the dais rather than the thrones themselves. Comfortable chairs, slightly lower, positioned where one could observe without being displayed. She sat carefully, her posture composed but not stiff. I took the chair beside her, leaving enough space that she would not feel hemmed in, close enough that I could respond before anyone in the room made the mistake of testing boundaries.

“My father and Devon maintain royal appearances as often as possible,” I said. “Obsidian is neutral ground, but it is also his territory. Visibility matters.”

Grace’s gaze moved over the lounge. “So the thrones are political.”