“Commander.”
He groaned, holding her at the edge, each stroke merciless, emptying thought.
“Tory—” she broke, urgent, desperate, “—cover my mouth.”
His breath fractured. He pressed his palm to her lips, hovering. She caught his wrist and dragged it tight, eyes locked to his.
Fierce. Deliberate. Yes.
“Good girl,” he rasped, voice gone low and ruined.
Then he thrust—controlled, relentless—pinning her to the stone as the bath lapped and shivered beneath them. Her cry vanished into his hand. He felt her clamp around him, felt the quake climb her spine—
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She obeyed, and what she saw in his eyes undid her—the wreckage, the worship.
“Commander Seraphim,” she gasped into his palm, the title breaking her apart.
He shattered.
The name ripped through him like fire and thunder, searing every last thread of restraint. With a groan that was half vow, half surrender, he spilled into her, holding her tight through the quake, covering her cries, keeping her his until the last tremor left them both wrecked and shaking.
Then she felt it before she saw it—the hum under his skin, the air thinning like a breath of winter drawn sharp. He pulled back, just enough. His eyes opened to her.
The fiery blue kindled, light blooming through, a mist unfurling like frost on air.
She cupped his face, thumbs circling the glow.
“My commander,” she whispered. “My weapon. My husband.”
The radiance deepened. His jaw set, as if bracing a line only he could see.
He exhaled like a vow. The light ebbed, leaving the clear, sky blue that was his alone for her.
“I’ll know you,” she breathed.
Her fingers touched his brow.
“I will always know.”
Chapter Ninety-Two
The Quiet Thread
One vow bound their hands. This one was bound in silence.
Steam curled between them, dampening the edges of his hair. Her braid clung heavy to her back, drops sliding over her skin. She tipped water over his shoulder, laughing low when he growled and dragged her closer, lips at her throat.
They didn’t speak for a while—just touched and teased until the bath grew quiet around them, heat lingering long after they rose.
It was well past midnight when they stepped outside, skin still warm, hair fragrant with the bath’s scent. He laid his coat over her shoulders, guiding her across the stony path, his stare sharp to anyone who gawked.
Storne had assigned Viktor a large command pavilion: double walls, a brazier glowing low, maps rolled in a crate—andoutside, two ranks of sentries posted at the guy ropes, another pair at the flap, shields stacked like a promise. No one was pulling the new commander from his bed for anything less than a siege.
Amerei entered first, gripping Viktor’s arm when she saw it—his uniform, freshly pressed, a commander’s insignia on the lapel, black mantle edged in silver.
He let out a long breath behind her.
