Page 121 of Velvet Chains

“Okay,” he said finally, stepping back. “You want to file this paperwork? We’ll do it this week. I’ll sign whatever you need.”

“Julian—”

“But if he tries to take her,” he said, “I’ll burn every fucking bridge I have left. I’ll go to the press. I’ll go to the FBI. I’ll go to his fucking house. I’ll burn your career down. I’ll burn Aleksey’s career down. I will, so help me God, run you out of this city just so I can have my daughter nice and safe next to me. Do you understand me?”

I nodded, my eyes watering.

“Good,” he said, picking up the wine and heading for the door. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kieran

Tristan stood near the stone arch that led to the lower garden path, gloved hands tucked behind his back like he was reviewing a chessboard only he could see. Liam paced near the patio steps, hands shoved in his coat pockets, eyes flicking between us. I stayed still. Shoulders tight. Heart tight. Everything tight.

It was Christmas morning.

Inside, the house was filled with warmth and noise—kids yelling over new toys, her sister and mother calling for more coffee, Adriana humming along to Bing Crosby while she basted something. But out here? Out here it felt like purgatory.

Liam exhaled hard, his breath misting. "You have to tell him."

“Really?”

Liam gave me a look. I knew him well enough to know it meant that he wasn’t buying my bullshit. I got it, I just wished he had given me a little more time.

Tristan turned. Not fully—just enough that I could see his face in profile. "Tell me what?"

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant someone had already loaded the gun.

Liam looked at me. I looked back.

"The girl," Tristan said, still facing the hedge. "The one who called you Key. Who is she, Kieran?"

I felt my lungs collapse, rebuilt them. It didn’t fucking help; I still sounded breathless when I spoke. "Rosie Marquez. Ruby’s daughter."

"And she's yours," Tristan said.

It wasn't a question.

Liam looked away, jaw tight.

I nodded once.

Tristan let the silence grow, let it root through the mud and cold between us. His eyes came to rest on me: blue, bottomless, sharp as the day they first pulled me out of the river.

“You didn’t know?”

I shook my head. “Not until very recently.”

Tristan didn’t say anything at first–just turned slightly, like he needed a different angle to process the blow. Then, soft and stunned, he murmured, “My niece.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Your niece.”

“My God,” Tristan said, after a second. He started laughing…but it was guttural, raspy, not entertained—shocked andangry. “Sheisyours.” His gaze burned hotter than the morning sun over the snow. “I should have seen it in her eyes, that same big smile like no one could ever hurt her…that’s you all over. And you let my entire family watch that little display last night without saying a single word.”

“I didn’t know what you’d do.”

Tristan stopped laughing so fast it was jarring. “You didn’t know what I’d do?” he repeated, incredulous. “And when, exactly, have I crossed you?”

“I didn’t know at first,” I said, jaw tight. “And when I did—youwere the one who told me to ruin her. I made a call. Rosie is mine. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but protecting her mattered more than pleasing you.”