Chapter 9: Lace, Poison, and Painted Smiles

Viktor watched, half-bored. “You’ve overstayed,” he said flatly. “The weather’s shifting. I don’t like how it settles in the walls. Plus, I heard Baba Yaga might be visiting soon.”

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

Viktor stubbed out his cigar with deliberate calm. “You should return to your father. This house is not meant for lingering.”

But she didn’t leave.

She lingered for weeks, a perfume that wouldn’t wash out. Something about the name Baba Yaga haunted her like a long-unpaid debt. But the witch never came.

Genevieve haunted the manor instead—drifting through corridors in swirls of lace, laughter, and veiled cruelty. She lingered at thresholds, always one room away, always listening. Her presence was too light to call sinister, too heavy to ignore. She offered Viktor critiques on wallpaper, commented on dust she never touched, and slid barbed compliments toward Ayoka like knives wrapped in velvet.

Viktor spent most nights in a room with Ayoka. She worried when Viktor began bringing in his clothes and belongings. Slowly, she began doing her hair, forcing a sickly smile in the mirror. "I guess Master was going to do this anyway," she thought. She asked Benvoît to keep Malik safe for the night. He took the child to a room even Ayoka didn’t know how to access.

Sabine had planned to dress her, but Ayoka chose instead to sit naked on the bed with only a ribbon. Sabine was surprised by the choice. Ayoka rolled her eyes and sighed. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Sabine. We all know how this goes. I might as well choose when it happens, right?”

Sabine shook her head in disappointment but applied perfume to her skin—orchid and blueberry. Sabine smiled sadly, a few tears slipping down her cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” Ayoka smirked. “No need for tears over me.”

Sabine scoffed. “I just have to serve that wannabe-banishment case, that’s all.” Then she left slowly, while Ayoka lay on the bed, forcing happy thoughts.

Viktor entered and cleared his throat. “Get dressed. No questions.”

Ayoka stood and put on a bathrobe. He added, “Bring the child.” Benvoît stepped out of the shadows, making Ayoka jump. She took Malik from him, confused but quiet.

Viktor exhaled a lazy coil of smoke from his lips, the scent curling like incense and ember. It shimmered strangely—almost like dragonfire. Ayoka might’ve noticed, but Malik’s soft cry distracted her. Viktor looked straight at her then, voice firm and edged with sardonic bite. “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, touched with faint amusement. “But thank you for the offer,” he added, his copper eyes glinting with something ancient, maybe even kind. “Truly. The gesture flatters me.”

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Still, Ayoka glanced down and noticed his erection. Her thoughts turned sharp, laced with heat and disdain: Yeah, try to act like a gentleman. But we all know better. Masters like you love to play the good guy, all velvet words and half-promises. But rarely do you keep your word.

Ayoka had met men like him before—slave masters who'd bring flowers one day and beatings the next. One even swore she'd be freed once her child was born, only to sell her the very morning her son took his first breath. Another fed her sweet fruit and let her sleep indoors, right until he brought her to his friends like a gift to be unwrapped. The kind who wanted obedience with a smile and called it love.

Viktor might be different, but his kind always started with kindness. It always came wrapped in soft smiles and heavy chains. There was always a cost—hidden, quiet, and waiting to bloom like rot beneath roses. And yet, as she listened to Malik’s tiny breaths and felt Viktor’s protection draped over them both, Ayoka allowed herself a moment of fragile hope. Maybe this cost would be hers alone. Maybe her son would never know the price. That was the happy part. The sad part was believing it might be true.

A servant brought him whiskey—but when it poured, the liquid shimmered like molten galaxy blood. It was thick, with deep crimson hues that shifted in the light like velvet stars, swirling through the glass with unsettling grace. Ayoka squinted at it, caught between awe and suspicion. Maybe that explained his appetite. Maybe he was some ancient thing that found blood more intoxicating than sex. She mentally crossed “sex demon” off her list, though the cosmic cocktail didn’t help.

He offered her some.

Ayoka hesitated. The liquid shimmered like molten galaxy blood—too thick, too alive. 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 like strings stretched too tight.

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

Viktor gave a half-smile, one eye flicking toward her as he took a long sip himself. "I don’t need to butter anyone up," he said plainly. "This is to keep my nerves from fraying. Think of it like medicine—without the nonsense of those old miracle drugs they peddled like candy. I’m not one of those masters who gets drunk just to play noble. I just like to keep the storm quiet."

Ayoka kept her expression soft, serene, the perfect picture of obedience—but inside, a flicker of dry humor danced in her chest. She reached for the glass, fingers brushing it as if considering the offer, then gracefully pulled away. “No thank you,” she said with a quiet smile. “I like my edge sharp.”

Viktor readied them for bed.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t kiss. They only slept—if you could call it that. He held her as though she might vanish, fingers resting lightly at her waist, steady and warm. Shadows curled around the three of them like protective ivy, the room thick with quiet magic.

When Malik stirred in the night, Ayoka shifted, instinct pulling her upright. But Viktor’s arm tightened—not harshly, just enough to ground her. “I’ve got him,” he said, voice low and certain.

A flicker moved near the cradle. The same shadowy figure from her first night appeared, gliding to the child’s side with silent purpose. Ayoka blinked at the sight, confused but too tired to protest.

Viktor pulled her back into the circle of his body. “Papa’s got this. Just go back to sleep, Orchid,” he said—gentle, almost fond.

Ayoka lay still, heart thudding in a strange rhythm. She wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not in that moment. But her mind wandered.

What was he?

Some creatures collected souls. Others clung to roles, addicted to what they’d lost. She remembered a master’s friend—years ago—who returned from travel with a new child. His real son had died. The one he brought back was fae-touched, a changeling from the courts. But the man didn’t care. The illusion was enough.

The illusion became truth.