“Only you, Elarien. Only what you need.”
The hush deepened.
A calm so sharp it hurt.
“For as long as you’ll have me,” he said. “I am yours.”
Her chest seized. She heard him—yet over his voice, Viktor’s vow thundered in her marrow.
“Nothing will keep me from you. Not rank. Not kings. Not death itself.”
The scarred weight of him. The fire that nearly killed him. The love that defied the afterlife itself.
Now two men, two promises, pressed against her trembling heart.
One vowed to hold her in this life.
One vowed to tear apart death itself.
Rain and fire.
Anchor and flame.
Both unyielding. Both hers.
Her eyes closed, the ache of it climbing her throat until she could hardly breathe.
“Elarien…” Xavien whispered.
She clung tighter, her voice breaking.
“Don’t leave me.”
His hand found the back of her head. Slowly, he guided her forward until she rested against his shoulder. She wanted to resist, wanted to pull back—but dask, the warmth of his skin, the gentleness of his hands.
“I won’t leave you,” he murmured against her hair. “But we must leave this room. Before Jasmine stirs.”
Amerei looked up at him—he was already smiling, like he knew what she would say.
“How did you get in here, Xavien?”
His dark eyes glistened.
“Love, this is the consort’s suite. It’s made for such… conveniences.”
Then, too soft to be overheard: “Come. Quietly.”
He rose, drawing back the blanket, and slipped the black silken robe over her shoulders. She gathered her hair to one side. His hands lingered there, hovering above her skin. His fingers flexed once, twice… then laid gently against her arms, turning her to face him.
“This way.”
His brows arched, playful, as he pressed the panel in the wall. Wood shifted, hinges sighed. A narrow passage opened into shadow and silk-lit air.
She froze, half awe, half scandal.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Of course I have.”
