The sound of it unraveled her. No matter how sharp his tongue or steady his mask, he was still her father—and still her weakness.
Evander whispered something under his breath, but no one answered him.
Viktor pushed back his chair at last, rising to his feet.
“I’ll need to fetch something from upstairs before we move.”
Amerei’s gaze lingered after him, eyes glinting with something unspoken—caught between reason and instinct, between staying in the shadows…
…or following him into the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Breath Between
One more breath—and nothing would have stopped him.
Viktor eased the door open, mind on the pack waiting on the shelf—the Oustinon stones bound tight within.
Instinct flared before reason.
Steel flashed—then a familiar warmth hit him, the air itself bending before sense could catch up.
Amerei froze in the doorway, wide eyes fixed on the point just below her collarbone.
For a breath, the world went still.
Then Viktor saw her—truly saw her—and the sound left his lungs. Horror and relief collided, leaving his grip unsteady as he tore the blade down, metal scraping his leathers.
“Amerei.” His voice cracked. “Dask—I didn’t know—”
She exhaled a shaky laugh.
“Storms, Captain—remind me never to sneak up on you.”
The tension broke, though his pulse still thundered. He drew her inside, shutting the door quick behind them.
She nodded toward a faded shirt slung over the chair next to him.
“I just came to put Evander’s clothes back on.”
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
He snagged the shirt and held it out, giving her space. She slipped it over her riding leathers, tugging the collar straight—the faint scent of Evander’s cologne mixing with the dust of the room.
Viktor lingered, watching her in the half-light, every detail sinking into him—the damp strands of her braid, the stubborn set of her shoulders, the fact that she was here. With him.
Her gaze flicked up at last, a hint of mischief in her smile.
“Well? How do I look?”
His chest tightened, traitorously warm.
“Lady Zrynon,” he said, shaking his head. “It’d take the dark of night and entirely too much ale for anyone to mistake you for a dockhand.”
His gaze lingered on the loose cuffs.
“May I?”
