Too careful.
The heat of him pressed through the space between them, his gaze a banked fire that threatened to break loose.
Her eyes caught on the open collar of his tunic—the serpent tattoo coiled across his chest, ink shifting with each breath as though it lived in the lamplight. Dark. Dangerous. A reminder of what he was—and all he was not.
When she lifted her gaze, his was already waiting.
And she knew, with sudden, breathless certainty, that he would not move back.
His hands framed her face, warm and possessive. She gasped, her palms pressing against his chest, meaning to pushhim away—but the serpent writhed beneath her touch, heat searing through silk and skin, and her will faltered.
“Xavien—”
His mouth claimed hers—sudden, aching.
Inevitable.
It was nothing like Viktor’s.
No storm. No reverence. No vow burning between them.
Xavien kissed with dangerous grace, coaxing and consuming, centuries of restraint breaking loose in one ruinous breath. His hunger was silk where Viktor’s was fire, temptation where Viktor’s was oath.
She fought for air, for clarity, but he drew her deeper, drowning her until even her resistance burned away.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he tore back.
Breathless.
Shaking.
Standing above her like a man ripped in two by fate.
“My father is dead,” he said, voice ragged, eyes burning.
“I am king.”
Amerei lay frozen, chest heaving, the taste of him still singeing her lips. She watched in stunned silence as he turned away, tugging his tunic over his head. The serpent tattoo vanished into shadow as he crossed the chamber, shoulders taut, every line of him heavy with grief and power. The hidden bed creaked down, hard as truth.
Without another word, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
The torac pulled her under, heavy against silk.
Two beds.
Two kings.
Two fates.
Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
As If
For a day, they lived as if.
Amerei woke to the hush of dawn.
The fire in the grate had guttered low, the chamber faint with starflower. For a heartbeat she thought herself back in Fyreglade, the weight of war pressing on her chest—until her hand slid across silk sheets, and memory struck like a blade.
