The sun had barely risen when Sabine dressed her in ivory, a simple dress softer than the others. Fresh linen, scented soap, and a necklace shaped like a dragon with a ruby set at its center followed. It was the sort of detail that made Ayoka suspicious.

“Guests,” Sabine said, brushing out her curls. “Stay quiet. Stay still. Mostly because he asked to show off your child. You’re going to be the best wallflower there.”

When Ayoka descended the main stairwell holding Malik, his body warm against her breast and his head wrapped in a soft shawl, she saw Viktor in the parlor. He lounged in his favorite chair like a man born to it, composed and immovable.

Genevieve sat across from him, delicate and polished, nibbling at a sugared biscuit as if it held secrets she meant to divine. A second cup of tea waited nearby, sweetened and slightly cooled, clearly prepared for Ayoka. Though she had not been invited to sit, she was meant to witness.

“You were telling some saddening stories to the other wives in that little sewing club of yours,” Viktor said, lifting Ayoka’s untouched cup of tea. His eyes already looked tired of Genevieve’s antics.

Genevieve responded with a lazy drawl. “About the child. What was it? That it was… maimed? You shouldn’t worry yourself, Viktor.” She giggled, brushing a crumb from her lap.

Viktor did not look at Ayoka, but his lips curled into something like amusement, too tight and too polished to be real. His shoulders were stiff, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest, betraying the tension he tried to bury. He had to keep his guest entertained, even if every part of him screamed disinterest.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “You did say that. Something about maiming babies.” Though the look in his eyes suggested he wanted nothing more than to slap a bitch across the face, Ayoka caught the moment when Genevieve turned toward the window. Viktor’s expression slipped then, the careful mask falling away as if he were resting his face from the falseness, gathering himself before it could show too much.

“I didn’t mean it, of course,” Genevieve replied lightly, turning back toward Viktor with wide, innocent eyes, all doe-soft lashes and practiced gentleness. She tilted her head and played coy, though Ayoka knew better. Fae like Genevieve wore innocence the way others wore jewelry, decorative, removable, and never meant to be believed. “I could never do that to one of our own. But those things we feed, house, and allow to work for us? Well, they’re another story.”

Her gaze lingered on Malik with a disturbing kind of hunger before sliding back to Ayoka. “Such fine skin,” she murmured, voice sweet and idle. “It would make a stunning coat. Perhaps a little trim for winter gloves.”

She turned back to Viktor with a laugh that dripped honey and poison. “Honestly, Viktor, you keep such pretty things around the house, and no one knows what to do with them.”

Viktor raised his cup to his mouth, the porcelain trembling faintly against his lip before he masked it with a sip. He straightened his back with theatrical calm and cracked his neck like a man preparing for a duel rather than a parlor visit.

“It would be a waste,” he said coolly. “She is educated in the matters required for my needs, dignified, and obedient enough. The kind who thinks twice.”

Genevieve set her cup down harder than she intended, the fine china giving a sharp chime. “And she has a child with caramel skin and hair close to yours,” she said, biting into the words. Her smile curled, cruel and amused. “Is it a preference now, Viktor? A breeding experiment? Or is this that old nobleman’s sickness? Fancying swollen bellies and half-bred curls? You always did enjoy dressing up your dolls.”

Ayoka stood like a statue at the edge of the room, her arms tightening slightly around Malik. She did not move or speak. Her eyes fixed on a crack in the hardwood floor as she narrowed her focus, letting Genevieve’s words dissolve into noise. For Malik’s sake, she needed her heart to stay calm.

Genevieve noticed the change in Ayoka’s posture when she used the word “it,” and she smiled wider, certain she had struck something vital. “It’s holding him now,” she added. “Look. So tender, like it belongs to it. You don’t even own the child.”

The room shifted, shadows pulling tighter along the walls, though Genevieve did not notice.

“Genevieve,” Viktor said with a tired breath, “you always say the wrong thing when trying to be charming. Poison wrapped in ribbons.”

She rose abruptly, pouting like a child denied a second sweet. “If it offends you so,” she said sharply, “let me fix it.”

Before Ayoka could move, Genevieve crossed the room with graceful speed and extended her arms. “May I?” she asked, her tone sugared and expectant.

Ayoka hesitated and looked at Viktor. He did not meet her gaze, but his silence was its own command. She could hear the faint crackle of his cigar in the pause. Genevieve’s fingers twitched with impatience, her mask slipping just enough to reveal hunger beneath the sweetness.

“You may hold the child,” Viktor said at last, smooth and measured. “But be careful. I would hate to tell your father that he may need to discipline his daughter.”

Ayoka obeyed, every movement deliberate. She stepped forward and placed Malik into Genevieve’s arms. Her heart thundered in her chest, but her face remained distant and composed. Malik stirred at the unfamiliar perfume, whimpered once, then settled, unaware.

Genevieve rocked him with a confidence that bordered on possession. One manicured finger traced his cheek. “He’s heavier than he looks,” she said quietly. “Plump. Strong. Just a little thing now, but boys grow into problems, don’t they?”

Ayoka lowered her head slightly, the performance expected of her. “Yes, they do, Mistress,” she murmured. Her nails pressed crescents into her palms, her jaw locking tight. Every instinct screamed to take him back, but she did not move.

She played the wallflower.

“Relax,” Genevieve said lightly. “I’m not about to drop him.”

Ayoka said nothing. Her hands curled at her sides as her mind slipped into darker imaginings, violent and intimate, fantasies she buried as quickly as they came.

Viktor’s voice cut through them, cold and final. “That’s enough. You’re playing your games too far.”

Ayoka stepped forward and took her child back. Her fingers brushed Genevieve’s, and in that brief contact she felt the chill of a woman who could command cruelty without lifting a hand. She drew Malik close, his breath warm against her neck, and did not look back.