He was every inch the serpent prince—and yet, in that moment, every bit a loving father.
“Amerei,” he said, her name leaving him like steam off water.
Her breath caught.
A nurse appeared, summoned by silence. Xavien pressed his lips to the child’s crown, passed her gently into waiting arms.
“Calen, lirien.”
(Hush, little one.)
Amerei stilled—to see such power bend so tenderly left her stunned. Before she could say a word, his hand found her wrist.
“Come, Elarien,” he murmured.
He set the door with a single lock this time—no ritual, no held breath.
One lamp burnished silk, onyx, and the curve of his serpent tattoo, making it gleam alive across his chest. He drew her to sit, stirring coals in the brazier.
“She didn’t want to be alone,” he said. “Zara. My youngest.”
A blanket brushed her lap. His presence pressed close, dangerous grace coiling. Water slid from his hair to his shoulder, glinting like morning dew.
“You don’t want to be alone either.”
Amerei held his gaze, the serpent ink shimmering. For a heartbeat she let herself breathe, spine straightening as if to take something back from him—her own steadiness, her own claim—before she spoke.
“Your tattoo,” she asked, barely above a whisper, “was it painful?”
He glanced down.
“Terribly,” he laughed, voice smooth.
He drew a tunic from behind her, pulling it over his head, movements unhurried, practiced.
“Knowing my mother will never see it,” he said, “made it worth every sting.”
The hem caught at his rib—the place of Viktor's deepest scar.
Xavien—the marks of quiet rebellion.
Viktor—the scars of unguarded devotion.
“Do you always look like that,” he asked, “when you think of him?”
She clutched the blanket tighter.
“I miss him, Xavien.”
“I know.”
He leaned back against the wall, gaze smoldering.
“If you weren’t here, you’d be with him. Cot or castle—you wouldn’t care.”
She nodded, eyes soft.
His smile tilted slow, daring.
