They spoke in glances. Jasmine moved first, slipping Amerei’s wedding band onto the table. Evander set down Viktor’s knife beside it—clean, leather-wrapped, as if it had never been unsheathed.
“Goodnight,” Jasmine murmured.
The latch caught.
The door closed.
Alone.
Amerei stripped the seam’s knot with shaking fingers. The gown gave way, bones of the corset biting her ribs. The fabric tore with a sound too loud in the quiet. Memory struck—the slit in Deglan’s throat, the heat of his blood. She covered her face before the scream could climb out.
“One with Viktor’s knife,” she whispered. “One with Viktor’s sling.”
She fell back into that day—the power he sent through her arm, the sling at her wrist, his hands at her waist.
“You don’t need strength. You have me.”
The words hollowed her.
Her eyes drifted toward the adjoining chamber. Steam curled from beneath the door, the bath already waiting, just as Xavien had promised. She moved as if in a dream, bare feet against cool stone, gown trailing.
The air inside was warm, perfumed faintly with rose. Candlelight danced over the water’s surface, unbroken, waiting for her.
She loosened the last laces, let silk and linen fall in a heap, and sank slowly into the warmth. The water took her like an embrace—too much, too gentle. She lowered until her ears slipped beneath, until the world went muffled and far.
Viktor.
Raven-dark, winter’s oath.
His breath at her nape:
“Every sound. Every scream. Give them all to me.”
His laughter tangled with sea spray.
His whisper:
“My love. My wife. Mine.”
She slid under, let the water burn her eyes instead of tears.
When the candles guttered low, she rose. A black silk robe lay on a chair, linen shift beneath. She dressed by touch, damp hair heavy against her back.
At the balcony she watched Jasmine and Evander beneath the cherry trees, laughter sparking, whispers sharp.
Too alive, too much.
Through the inner door her bed waited—sheets turned, pillows full. She longed for sleep, for Viktor. She longed not to be alone.
Inside, a voice screamed not to go—that this was dangerous—but her body moved faster than thought, carrying her down the corridor as if drawn. Guards straightened, but none stopped her. The wing knew her steps.
At Xavien’s door, she paused.
One breath. Two.
The bolt slid. The door opened.
Xavien stood bare-chested, a child heavy on his shoulder, little fingers tangled in the chain at his throat. Gold strandsclung damp to his temple, braids beaded with onyx swaying with his breath.
