“Forced to duty I did not understand.”
His hand brushed the column beside her hip.
“Far from home. Far from all I knew and loved. The Isle of Eilles.”
She looked up.Viktor.
Mist clung to his serpent bracelet as he slid nearer still, his hand hovering at her waist, palm open.
“’Tis where elvish princes are kept—safe, prepared. I returned only upon marriage."
He leaned to her ear, breath stirring her hair.
“Just. Like. You.”
Her heart thundered, corset biting.
“I am told…” he murmured, fingers grazing her laces. “…you wed the Ruakite in a ceremoniless handfast.”
A beat.
A grin.
“You sweet sparrow… your marriage is as legitimate as my divorce.”
“You were told,” she said tightly. “Or you watched.”
“No one can see Fyreglade,” he said, almost kindly. “Nor would I need to. You told it yourself. Smoke, ash, the elders. The cliff, the sea, the chant.Seraphim.”
Her eyes slammed shut.
The onyx, the mist, fell away.
Only the space between them, closing like summer sun cresting mountains. Heat bled from his hand, near enough to touch. A breath more and he would.
“I sent a caravan east the morning after you left Westport—surgeons, axemen, builders. The finest. Your Ruakite rallies—Windmere, is it?”
Then lower:
“I sent the Sagittarii.”
His lips brushed her temple, his voice a whisper sharpened to cut.
“Open your eyes, Amerei.”
She did.
Sandstone flared, sea cut blue, towers she knew by heart—Rhidian.
“Your kingdom is falling apart,” he breathed at her hair. “Your nobles came to me. Your house sleeps under my roof. Even your lover begged me to take you. Fate has opened the door.”
Her hand trembled below her ribs.
“You guard your belly, my queen.”
She shuddered, eyes closed.
“You fear you already carry his child,” he said gently, tipping her chin so she was forced to meet his eyes.
