“Sounds about right,” he said, though his eyes gleamed.
“My father said Adamar and I came into the world wrapped in night, meant to spend our lives chasing the dawn.”
Her teasing faded into something gentler, fingers brushing over his chest.
“And now the night has caught the day.”
His mouth twitched, that almost-smile she was starting to know.
“Caught? More like ambushed me in the dark.”
She laughed, low and warm, lips brushing over the scarred skin of his chest.
For a long while, she only listened to the steady thrum of him beneath her ear. Then—bold—her hand slid lower, fingertips grazing the ink feathering beneath his heart.
The raven’s wing.
She felt him still, every muscle tightening under her palm.
“For my brother,” he whispered.
His breath quieted.
He should have pulled away, but her touch held him through the fire.
“Adamar was the better half of me,” he said low. “He came into this world fighting for every breath, and I still lost him. Days later they sent me to Irongate, and I swore I’d never let myself love anything I couldn’t hold through flame and ash.”
His voice cracked on the last word, like it had cut him open.
Silence pressed between them, heavy and raw.
Amerei lifted her head, meeting his gaze, her hand cupping his jaw.
“Then let me be the first thing you keep.”
His chest tightened—every scar, every memory, every vow bending toward her words.
Then his mouth curved, wry, gruff, achingly Viktor.
“Even if I’m no elven prince, love?”
Her laugh broke through the weight, soft but bright.
“Especially because you’re no elven prince.”
He arched a brow.
“What’s wrong with princes?”
She traced lazy circles over his chest, voice light.
“Xavien, for one, they say has bedded half the court.”
He tipped his head.
“Then the other half should run.”
Amerei’s smile curved.
