Viktor watched with half-lidded eyes, the cigar still burning between his fingers. “You’ve overstayed,” he said flatly. “The weather’s shifting. I don’t like how it settles in the walls. And I hear Baba Yaga may be visiting soon.” He brought the cigar down and ground it out against his own palm without a sound, smoke hissing as it died. Then he stood, moving toward Genevieve with quiet intent, guiding her step by step toward the door as if by instinct alone, putting deliberate distance between her, Ayoka, and Malik.

Genevieve blinked, her composure flickering like a candle in a draft. “Pardon?”

Viktor did not answer right away. He straightened, the heat that had been held tight behind his eyes cooling into something sharper. “You should return to your father,” he said evenly. “This house is not meant for lingering.”

But she did not leave.

She lingered for weeks, a perfume that refused to wash out. The name Baba Yaga followed her like an unpaid debt, though the witch never came. Genevieve haunted the manor instead, drifting through corridors in lace and laughter, her cruelty veiled just enough to pass as charm. She paused at thresholds, always one room away, always listening. Too light to name a threat, too heavy to ignore.

She critiqued wallpaper she did not own, commented on dust she never touched, and slid velvet-wrapped knives of courtesy toward Ayoka with a smile. Genevieve tested the waters with each small cruelty, pushing just far enough to see what would bend, what would bruise, and what would draw blood.

It stopped after Genevieve crossed a boundary she should have known better than to test. One night, she slipped into Viktor’s room uninvited, too familiar and too close, as if proximity alone might claim him. He did not raise his voice, but he did not forgive the intrusion either. The next morning, Viktor spoke plainly to Ayoka, not to Genevieve. He informed her that he would begin sleeping in Ayoka’s room, using Genevieve’s earlier complaints about sharing the same floor as his justification. The decision was delivered without ceremony, a line drawn cleanly through the air. Genevieve smiled at the announcement, sweet and brittle, but the test was over.

So the next day, Viktor told Sabine he would be staying in the same room as Ayoka. The decision was delivered simply, as if it were a matter of logistics rather than consequence. When the words reached Ayoka, they struck harder than she expected. She was shocked, but not surprised. She had known this day might come. It would have made little sense for her to remain untouched for long in a house built on ownership and expectation.

When night arrived, Viktor had yet to appear, but the knowledge that he would come tightened her stomach all the same. The quiet of the room pressed in around her, and memory crowded close. She remembered how some masters and mistresses used enslaved bodies as bed warmers, not always for sex, but for warmth, for comfort, for the reassurance of ownership. I suppose this was always coming, she thinks, steadying herself as she smooths her hair into place. Before night fully settles, she asks Benoît to keep Malik safe. He takes the child to a room even Ayoka does not know how to reach.

Sabine had planned to dress her, but Ayoka chose instead to sit naked on the bed with only a ribbon at her throat. Sabine froze when she saw her.

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” Ayoka said, tired rather than flippant. “We both know how this goes. I might as well choose when it happens.”

Sabine shook her head and applied perfume to her skin, orchid and blueberry, as if scent alone could ward off the obvious. Her mouth twitched, caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

“Why are you making that face?” Ayoka asked dryly. “If you’re waiting for romance, you’re in the wrong house.”

Sabine scoffed, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please. If I thought tonight would end in poetry, I’d have brought candles. I’m just annoyed I have to serve that wannabe banishment case on top of everything else.”

She turned for the door, pausing just long enough to add, “At least put something on before he gets ideas you didn’t mean to give.” Then she left slowly, while Ayoka lay back and forced her thoughts into safer places.

Viktor entered and cleared his throat, and the room seemed to tighten around him. The air shifted, loose edges snapping into order. “Get dressed.”

Ayoka stood and pulled on a bathrobe. “Bring the child,” he added. Benoît stepped out of the shadows. She took Malik from him, confused but quiet, and when she looked up again he was already gone, the shadows closing where he had stood.

Viktor exhaled a lazy coil of smoke, the scent curling like incense and ember. It shimmered strangely, almost like dragonfire. Ayoka might have noticed, but Malik’s soft cry drew her focus. Viktor looked straight at her then, voice firm with a sardonic edge. “If I wanted pleasure tonight, I’d hire a whore, or use my own two hands. I’ve got both, last I checked.”

His voice rumbled, heat woven beneath velvet. “But thank you for the offer,” he added, copper eyes glinting with something ancient. “Truly. The gesture flatters me.”

*She glanced down and saw the truth of him anyway, heat pressed hard and undeniable. Her thoughts sharpened with disdain."*Yeah. Play the gentleman. Masters like you always do. Velvet words and half-promises. They rarely keep their word."

She had met men like him before. Flowers one day, beatings the next. One swore she’d be freed once her child was born, then sold her the morning her son took his first breath in the womb. Another fed her sweet fruit and let her sleep indoors, right until he brought her to his friends like a gift to be unwrapped. Obedience with a smile, and they called it love.

Viktor might be different, but his kind always began with kindness. It came wrapped in soft smiles and heavy chains. There was always a cost, quiet and waiting, blooming like rot beneath roses. And yet, listening to Malik’s tiny breaths and feeling Viktor’s protection draped over them both, Ayoka allowed herself a fragile hope. Maybe the cost would be hers alone. Maybe her son would never know it. The happy part was imagining that. The sad part was believing it might be true.

A servant brought whiskey. When it poured, the liquid shimmered like molten galaxy blood, thick and crimson, shifting with velvet stars. Ayoka squinted, caught between awe and suspicion. Maybe that explained his appetite. Maybe he was something ancient that found blood more intoxicating than sex. She crossed “sex demon” off her list, though the cosmic cocktail did not help.

He offered her some.

Ayoka hesitated. Everything about it told her not to trust it. But after the day she’d had, she almost didn’t care. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and her nerves felt drawn too tight.

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You one of those masters who likes to butter a girl up with fine drink before asking her to play pretty?”

Viktor took a long sip. “I don’t need to butter anyone up,” he said plainly. “This keeps my nerves from fraying. Think of it as medicine, without the nonsense. I like to keep the storm quiet.”

Ayoka kept her expression serene, obedience perfected, while dry humor flickered beneath. She reached for the glass, brushed it, then withdrew. “No thank you,” she said softly. “I like my edge sharp.”

They prepared for bed.

They did not speak. They did not kiss. They slept, if it could be called that. He held her as though she might vanish, fingers resting lightly at her waist. Shadows curled around the three of them like protective ivy, the room thick with quiet magic.

When Malik stirred in the night, Ayoka moved to rise. Viktor’s arm tightened, not harshly, just enough to ground her. “I’ve got him,” he said, low and certain.

A flicker passed near the cradle. The same shadow from her first night glided to the child’s side with silent purpose. Ayoka blinked, too tired to protest.

Viktor drew her back. “Papa’s got this. Go back to sleep, Orchid,” he murmured, gentle and almost fond.

Ayoka lay still, heart beating to a strange rhythm. She was not afraid. Not then. But her thoughts wandered.

What was he?

Some creatures collected souls. Others clung to roles, addicted to what they had lost. She remembered a master’s friend who returned from travel with a new child after his real son died. The boy was fae-touched, a changeling from the courts. The illusion had been enough.

The illusion became the truth.