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Although maybe I already knew. He’d faced this exact choice a couple of months ago.

“Rory, baby,” Mikhail said gently, “that’s not a fair question to ask because there is no answer Severin can give without hurting someone’s feelings at this table.”

Severin shot his brother a glare, and my eyebrows drew together. Why was he frustrated when Mikhail had just stepped in to save him from an exceedingly awkward situation? Was there more tension between the brothers than I realized?

Svetlana gritted her teeth and gripped her steak knife as if it were a broadsword she was carrying into battle.

After another awkward silence, during which we returned to our meals, Svetlana asked, “So are you two going to have babies then?”

I froze, feeling like a piece of petrified piece of wood.

“Probably,” Severin responded calmly.

Mikhail’s keen gaze settled on the side of my face while I stared at the wall behind Svetlana’s head. He knew something was off, and although his hand moved toward me, he eventually pulled it back into his lap as if he'd thought better of it. But his attention never wavered.

Mikhail had always been the brother who was good at reading people—at knowing when they were unsteady.

When I returned to New York after college, he became a close friend, always knowing when I was on edge. I both loved and hated him for it.

“You know, I, for one, would love to finish eating this delicious meal Cook Witford made for us without further discussion of my baby brother’s reproduction plans.”

Mikhail's tone was bright and light, but we all knew he was trying to defuse a bomb.

Svetlana glowered at me and slammed her silverware down. “Well, if you do have a child, I hope it dies at birth, and I hope you do too, just like my mother.”

All the blood drained from my face, and my vision blurred. It was an absolutely horrible thing to say, and it cut deep into my soul.

Because what if I couldn’t have any children? What if Furies were barren? But worse than that, the girl’s words struck at one of my deepest fears.

My hands shook as I shot to my feet, knocking my chair over in my rush to escape the room and my spiraling emotions.

I was a mosaic of broken glass, every piece of me shattering, and I just needed to get away from it all.

I was breaking, and I didn’t want an audience to see it. But honestly, I'd been breaking piece by piece since Severin came back into my life.

Chapter Thirteen

Xeniya Morozova

Age 35

Istormed out of the dining room, the ranch-style doors swinging behind me as their hinges protested, and made my way deeper into the house.

The butler’s kitchen was empty when I stepped inside. Smaller than the main kitchen, it was one of the few places in the house where the staff didn’t constantly come and go.

Severin had a massive staff. Maybe fifteen maids and multiple cooks, though the cooks tended to favor the bigger kitchen. This one was homier, the place where Severin’s mother used to pretend to bake cookies when we were kids.

She could not cook to save her life.

I staggered to the counter and gripped its edge as my breathing grew shallow and frantic, and my vision blurred further.

All I saw was purple—deep, awful, terrible purple and I heard silence. Guttural, horrible silence.

Bile rose in my throat. I was going to be sick. My hands shook, and my knees threatened to buckle.

Behind me, the saloon doors swung open again. Before I could register who'd entered, a hand circled my throat and squeezed lightly.

“Look at me, Keira.” His voice was soft and concerned. “Look at me.”