“Viktor—”
“Westport by noon.”
“Viktor, listen to me—”
“I can’t,” he snapped, voice fraying at the edges.
“I have to—”
“Silen’ar, Tory!”
(Enough, Tory!)
Gabriel’s voice thundered through the room, cracking with fury and desperation.
Amerei’s chest clenched.
She looked up at him—but his eyes were locked on Viktor.
“Saryn o’re, Tory,” he said, voice firm, the weight of command.
(Look at her, Tory.)
He pulled Amerei closer to his side.
“Look at her and tell her. Tell her you’re going to leave her in the middle of the night. To run alone to a land that’s just been decimated.”
“I have to go—”
“Don’t tell me,” Gabriel ground out, guiding Amerei forward.
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Tellher.”
Viktor finally looked at her.
His eyes already rimmed red with grief. Breath sharp, shallow.
This man—he let her in.
Let her kiss the scars no one else saw.
Let his head rest on her chest, as if her heartbeat was the only sound that could quiet him.
She tried to hold onto that image.
Him—unguarded, trusting, hers.
But the silence had already taken his place.
And no matter how tightly she clung to it, it was only memory now.
Now he stood before her.
Hands still gripping the laces of his cuirass.
Feet bound and ready.
