His hands clutched the linen, clinging.
“Tell me what to give,” he rasped, bowing his head to her lap, voice raw. “Tell me and it’s yours.”
She found breath, knees steadying. Evander’s arm braced her, Xavien’s weight pressed against her.
Her eyes shut.
Memory surged—the night Viktor claimed her, his voice fierce in her bones.“Look at me, love. Only me.”
Her lashes lifted.
Her voice cut clean.
“Send my husband soldiers.”
Chapter Ninety-Eight
The Fate Sleeping Between Them
Some fates sleep only to wake in blood.
The guards did not come—of course they didn’t. In the halls of a libidinous prince, screams carried no weight at all.
Xavien was already at the door, bare-chested, voice low and honed like a weapon.
“Hold the corridor. No alarm,” he told the Sagittarii in Elvish.
“The lantern fell in the solarium. There is ash on the floor. Send the ashman.”
(Attempt on my life. Body. Quietly.)
“Circle the garden. Move the children west.”
A bowstring thrummed in answer. Bootheels faded down the hall.
He stepped half into the corridor, flicking his fingers at Jasmine.
“Lady Inara—inside. Now.”
Then the panic slid back into its sheath.
He ushered them through an inner door to a study carved of stone and silence. Shelves rose in flawless ranks, spines aligned by hue and height. A long table sat square to the floorboards, a map anchored beneath polished weights.
Xavien shut the door and worked the locks. The bar. The bolt. The lower catch. Thumb press, knuckle tap—once, twice, thrice. Back to the first. Again. The ritual steadied him.
To Amerei, the sound of bolts became a metronome against her ribs, her own heart racing with every click.
“Here.” He guided her and Jasmine to a settee beneath the window’s arch. Evander lingered in the corner seam, gaze fixed on the garden shadows.
Outside, the palace whispered in code.
Inside, Xavien’s world held immaculate order.
Evander offered a folded scrap. “This was in his hand.”
Xavien accepted it without ceremony. The paper bore a spidery script and a smear of blood. A laugh broke from him, brittle as glass.
“My crimes,” he said. “Adultery. Usurpation.”
