“I came to you a scout—”
“And now you are my commander.”
She turned to him, stepping toward the bed.
Her eyes softened.
“But tonight… just be my husband.”
The coat slipped to the floor, then her shift, baring her to the lamplight before she slid naked beneath the blanket. He followed, stripping down in a flurry—shirt, belt, boots, until only his smallclothes remained. When he climbed in beside her, she curled into him at once, her skin warm against his chest.
“Cold?” he asked, wrapping her tight.
She only pressed closer, her smile small.
“I like this. I want to sleep like this every night. No linen between us. Just you.”
His laugh was quiet, a little broken.
“In Castle Rhidian?”
“In Castle Rhidian,” she echoed, her voice dream-drowsy, as if the morning light already touched those stone floors. “You’ll grumble about the windows, and I’ll open them anyway. We’ll freeze—and I’ll still prefer it.”
He brushed his nose along her hairline, his breath warm at her temple.
“Then I’ll keep you warm.”
Something pressed lightly between their palms. She shifted, and the braided cord slid into view—salt-stiff, dark with use, the knot they’d tied in Fyreglade still holding true.
His thumb brushed the braid. “You kept it.”
“I took it with me to Westport,” she whispered, “and wrapped it around my wrist on the ride here.”
She tucked it under his hand, as if the vow itself could warm them.
“I’m taking it with me,” she said, voice catching, “to Amethyst.”
He turned the cord in his fingers, the black-and-blonde braid rasping softly against his skin, memories of their wedding night blooming sharp and alive between them.
“I’m also taking,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes, “my wedding band.”
“Ami—”
“I just want it close,” she murmured, throat tightening.
His chest rose beneath her hand.
His jaw flexed, then he gave a short, certain shake of his head.
“Not your hand,” he said, voice low and final. “Around your neck. Close to your heart. That’s where it belongs.”
She nodded.
For a while they only breathed, the brazier’s glow painting the canvas gold and low. Her fingers traced the ink under his heart, the curve of the tattoo steady beneath her touch, his vow alive in every beat.
“Viktor,” she said at last, so quietly it might have been meant for the dark. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
He stilled—wholly present.
