“Yes—Viktor—yes—”
Her head tipped back.
“You saved me—dragon’s breath, the wall—”
His hands clamped harder at her hips.
“I’d do it again.”
The air chilled for an instant—like winter on the tongue—gone almost before she could name it. A faint glimmer threaded his irises before fading, like frost catching light.
“I came to you—Fyreglade,” she whispered, breathless, rain and cypress flooding her senses. “And you didn’t take me.”
Her hands skimmed the scars along his back.
“I knew… I couldn’t live without you.”
It all blurred—armor falling, a cot’s rough blanket, a tavern’s half-stolen kiss, a hall burning with fire and screams—every memory folding into the next until there was no seam, no before, no after.
Only this. Only him. Only her.
And beneath it all, the faintest hum, like snow beginning to fall—warning, promise, power blooming between them.
He caught her under the thighs and lifted, the cold bite of granite at her spine as his arms locked her tight against him.
“Tory—”
His mouth stole the plea.
One forearm braced beneath her, the other palm spread across her shoulder blades—holding, anchoring—and then he thrust, slow and devastating, each press deeper than the last until her hands clawed into his braids.
“The tavern,” she panted, voice frayed. “I imagined—”
“—this?”
His jaw flexed, arms tightening as he drove harder.
“Exactly this.”
His mouth curved—hungry, almost disbelieving.
“Mm,” he rasped against her throat. “My shameless girl.”
He hitched her higher, and she shuddered, her cry breaking as he answered with another deep drive, merciless, consuming.
“My beautiful girl.”
Warm water slipped along her spine. Her fingers tangled in his hair. He held her there—one arm steel beneath her, the other spread hard at her nape.
“Say it,” he demanded, eyes burning into hers.
Her lips grazed his ear.
“Commander.”
Something dark lit in him—he drove harder.
“Again.”
