Sofia remained still for several seconds after she heard the shower’s water begin to flow.

  Only then did she exhale.

  Seraphine moved to the bedside, leaning closer to study Aya’s face. The girl’s breathing was steady now—deep, rhythmic, almost too controlled for someone her age.

  “She’s young,” Seraphine murmured. “And her scent…”

  Sofia stiffened at the same moment.

  “Like his,” she whispered.

  Seraphine’s eyes sharpened. “Not similar. Not reminiscent.”

  “Identical,” Sofia said.

  They stood in silence, listening to the shower run behind the wall.

  Seraphine spoke first. “Mother… she looks like someone we know.”

  Sofia didn’t answer immediately.

  She stepped closer, bending slightly at the waist, her eyes moving across Aya’s features with the precision of a surgeon and the instinct of a predator who had survived centuries by noticing what others missed.

  The silver-flecked lashes.

  The firm jawline.

  The faint, almost imperceptible luminescence in the girl’s aura.

  And most telling—

  Silver strands threading through black hair.

  Sofia’s hand tightened around Seraphine’s arm.

  “Stay with her,” she said. “Don’t leave her side.”

  Seraphine nodded.

  Sofia straightened, the pieces aligning behind her eyes. Not suspicion anymore.

  Recognition.

  She glanced once toward the bathroom door, where steam drifted in pale ribbons beneath the frame.

  “I’m going to get some answers.”

  She shed her long black coat, draping it over a chair with deliberate calm, then left the room without another word.

  Maxx stepped out of the shower, water flowing down his back and shoulders, pooling at the edge of the towel knotted low around his waist.

  His skin bore the scars from the night before: long, reddening cuts across his ribs and back, puncture wounds on his shoulder, and bruises blossoming like dark flowers underneath. All of them Valya’s work.

  The mirror was foggy, but even through the haze, he could see exhaustion in his eyes; old exhaustion, the kind that had lasted for centuries.

  He braced both hands against the counter and stared at his reflection.

  The blood was gone.

  The guilt wasn’t.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  And somewhere beyond the fogged glass, he could feel it—

  The moment approaching.

  He was reaching for the shaving brush when he sensed her. Sofia’s presence always entered a room like a shift in gravity—subtle but undeniably real.

  She stood in the doorway, dressed in a sleek black dress, her eyes as piercing as cut glass. “Maxximillian,” she said, her tone calm yet restrained.

  He turned, still avoiding her gaze. “You brought Seraphine. I told you—”

  “Do not change the subject,” she snapped. “Who is that girl in our bed?”

  Maxx bowed his head. “I told you I would explain.”

  “And I am here to listen,” she said, stepping fully into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her. “Start talking.”

  He didn’t. Instead, he dipped the brush into the cream and worked up a gentle lather. The familiar routine steadied him, providing a normal moment in a world quickly falling apart.

  Sofia watched him for a long moment, her jaw tightening. Then she moved swiftly, stepping forward and grabbing his wrist before he could bring the brush to his face.

  “No,” she said. “Sit.”

  He lifted his gaze to hers. An ancient wolf meeting an ancient vampire. Equal in strength, temperament, and stubbornness.

  “Sofia—”

  “Sit,” she repeated, her tone unyielding.

  Maxx exhaled loudly, not out of weakness but from exhaustion. He eased himself into the chair next to the vanity.

  Sofia carefully took the razor and brush from his hands, then stood before him. She dipped the brush and stroked it across his cheeks and down his neck. Slow. Methodical. Her fingers brushed his jaw, steady and calm.

  Maxx closed his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to meet her stare.

  “Who is she?” Sofia asked, her tone no longer gentle.

  Maxx remained silent.

  Her expression darkened. “The wounds on your back and chest are not from a street animal or a vampire. They’re lupine.” She leaned in closer. “Who did that to you?”

  Maxx’s jaw flexed. “Valya,” he said finally.

  Sofia’s hand stiffened. The razor pressed harder against his cheekbone. “So that Russian bitch is back,” her voice sharp. “And once again, leaving her mark.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  Sofia shaved carefully but with tense precision, sweeping the blade smoothly along his jawline. “Why was she here? Why were you fighting her at all?” she demanded.

  “She was hunting,” Maxx said. “The same as everyone else.”

  “For the subway killer.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you interfered.”

  “I had to.”

  Sofia took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring as she spoke with controlled anger. “And the girl,” she whispered, “who is she to you?”

  Maxx swallowed once. The sharpest truth wasn’t sitting at the edge of his throat. “She’s my daughter,” he finally said.

  Sofia froze, her eyes widening.

  Maxx continued in a hushed tone, “Her mother was human, a mortal woman named Sachi Lin. We met in Japan centuries ago. When I left because of issues with the local packs, I didn’t know she was pregnant. I only learned about Aya last night.”

  Sofia moved behind him, saying nothing, the razor still in her hand. She dipped the blade to clean it, then lifted his chin and carefully ran the blade up the side of his neck with deliberate, dangerous precision.

  Her voice drifted behind him, gentle as snowfall. “And you chose not to tell me before now?”

  “I didn’t have the chance.”

  “You could have said something last night.”

  “I was dealing with Valya. And carrying an unconscious girl out of an alley.”

  Her silence grew colder and sharper. She kept shaving the front of his neck, but her movements lost all tenderness. She paused just above his carotid artery, then dug her nails into one of the healing cuts on his back. Maxx’s spine arched instinctively as the pain shot through him like lightning. The razor’s edge nicked his neck, a thin line of crimson blooming instantly.

  Sofia held him firmly by the shoulder, her lips close to his ear. “Are there any other surprises, mi amor?” she whispered. “Any other children you have misplaced in the world?”

  Maxx’s voice was strained. “No. Not that I know of.”

  Sofia slid the blade away from his throat and stepped around to face him. Her eyes were angry, but also wounded.

  She lifted the razor, holding it between them, her eyes locked onto his. Then, very slowly, she sensually dragged the tip of her tongue along the bloodstained edge. A ruby-red sheen shimmered across her lips, her eyes never leaving his for a moment.

  Maxx stared at her, breath thick in his chest.

  Her gaze abruptly shifted from sensual to fierce. “If I find out you’re involved in any way with that Russian whore, or if any more daughters, sons, or ex-lovers come forward,” her eyes flashed with anger, “I’ll have a silver razor forged and use it to cut off a certain part of your anatomy.”

  Maxx sat perfectly still and silent. If he were human, he would have gladly taken her hand and helped her slit his throat. Death’s embrace would have been preferable to enduring the pain in her eyes and the hurt in her voice.

  Sofia licked his blood from her lips and let the razor clatter onto the tile floor. She said nothing, simply turned and walked out, her heels echoing like gunshots on the marble. Maxx remained with the sharp sting of her anger, the cut on his throat, and the burden of a daughter he never knew existed.