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The thought doesn’t disturb me as much as it should.

Halfway home, Elara says, “That was Evan.” Her voice is quiet, but in the car it sounds loud.

Anya looks up. “Who?”

Elara presses her lips together for a second. “My ex.”

That word sits between us.

Her ex. The man who knew where to look for her. The man who put his hands on her and made her go so pale that I had seen fear before I had seen anything else.

I look at her, but she keeps her eyes on the window.

“Did he hurt you?” Anya asks.

Elara turns to her at once. “No. He scared me, that’s all.”

That’s a lie for Anya.

I let it pass.

Anya leans into her side, and Elara puts an arm around her. The movement is careful, automatic, gentle. She is upset, but she still notices Anya first.

That makes what I said earlier feel worse. I look away.

When we reach the estate, Irina’s car follows us through the gates because apparently the day has not been exhausting enough.

She comes inside right behind us, removing her gloves with dramatic little tugs. “I’m staying tonight,” she announces. “Clearly this house needs someone sensible in it.”

Elara says nothing.

She only stands in the entrance hall with my coat around her shoulders and Anya’s hand in hers.

The complaint dies halfway across her face.

For a second, even Irina understands that something happened outside that townhouse. She may not know what, but she knows enough to lower her voice.

“Nikolai,” she says, less sharply. “I think I should stay.”

“No.”

Her chin lifts. “I’m family.”

“And I said no.”

“After everything that happened today⁠—”

“Go home, Irina.”

She looks at Elara again. Elara doesn’t look back. That seems to unsettle Irina more than an argument would have.

“I’ll come tomorrow,” she says.

“Call first.”

Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t push it. She kisses the top of Anya’s head, says something stiff about calling her if she needs anything, then leaves with the kind of dignity people use when they know they have lost in public.

Anya refuses dinner.