Chapter Twenty-Eight
Stitched Together
Fractured, fragile, yet held by a vow—they were stitched together.
The cart creaked beneath Viktor’s weight, his injured leg stretched out, blood seeping dark through torn fabric. Amerei rummaged through the basket, her movements too quick, too sharp.
“I’m sorry, Captain Seraphim,” she said. “I should never have—”
He gave a half-smile, waving it off.
“It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”
She shook her head, eyes bright with guilt.
“Don’t do that,” she tried. “Don’t pretend this isn’t my fault. I ordered you to engage, and you—”
He caught her wrist before she could turn away, his grip firm enough to still her.
His voice dropped, cold and certain.
“I’ll defy a direct order before I ever put you in danger like that again.”
Her lips parted, breath caught halfway between protest and surrender. Her gaze searched his face—his eyes, the hard line of his jaw, the faint curl at his mouth. Then she slipped her hand free and forced her focus back to the basket.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered, lighter than she meant it to sound.
Viktor’s mouth twitched.
And you’re worth it.
She found a square of gauze and pressed it to his thigh. He hissed through his teeth, jaw locking.
“Sorry,” she said quickly.
“You keep saying that,” he rasped, rough with pain. “I’m starting to think you like the sound of it.”
Her brows rose, but her lips threatened a smile.
“Do you ever take anything seriously? The cliff, now this—”
A grin tugged at Viktor’s mouth.
“If your father wasn’t trying so hard to kill me, I’d think he likes me.”
Amerei shook her head.
“That’s generous. He’s still deciding whether to bury you at sea or in backcountry soil.”
She reached for a needle, grimacing at the sight.
His grin deepened.
“Then tell him to save the trouble. I’d prefer a funeral pyre.”
She watched him sidelong, that private, dangerous smile pulling at the corner of her lips. Then she placed a clay jar in his palm. “Dulling salve.”
As she threaded the needle, her fingers slowed. The point caught the light, trembling.
Viktor noticed, a quiet laugh breaking low in his throat.
“Give it here. I can do it.”
“You?”
“I’ve stitched worse.”
He held out his hand.
She passed him the needle with visible relief.
“I hate the sight of blood,” she admitted softly. “Always have.”
“Good thing one of us doesn’t mind,” he said, bending to his work.
Her gaze lingered on him longer than it should have—on the steadiness of his hands, the sweep of his lashes as he focused. A sigh slipped from her, carrying memory and want both—the forest, the dragon, the way he had stood between her and death without hesitation.
He looked up at the sound, misreading it.
“I’ll never forgive myself for turning my blade on you.”
“It was terrifying.”
“It will never happen again.”
“…and exhilarating.”
Their eyes met, something fierce and bright sparking between them.
I fecking love her.
Bootsteps crunched over gravel.
Evander and Gabriel strode back into the clearing, slings dangling from their hands, still arguing about fiery arrows and impossible shots. Gabriel mimed a wild miss; Evander shoved him, both laughing as they dumped their weapons onto the cart.
The cart rocked—and a sudden hiss of smoke curled up from the back corner.
“Evander—” Viktor growled, already moving. He swept his hand out; wind and flame collided, snuffing the spark before it could spread.
Evander winced. Gabriel doubled over laughing.
From across the clearing, Storne’s voice cut through the noise.
“I saw that.”
Gabriel straightened, grin still tugging at his mouth.
“Was his father this much trouble?”
Storne’s brow arched.
“No. But yours was.”
Gabriel blinked. “Mine?”
A flicker of amusement crossed Storne’s face.
“Can you imagine Evander coming into his power at fifteen? That’s what my father had to wrestle with in the Bloodforge.”
Gabriel gave a low whistle.
“Bring the food and meet me at the falls,” Storne ordered, turning away.
For a moment, Viktor let the quiet settle—the rare, fragile ease of it.
Storne beside his daughter again after years in shadow.
Gabriel laughing though he had left his home in Vykenra behind.
Evander steady at their side, all rough edges and loyalty.
And himself—far from Westport, bound to a queen still learning the weight of her crown.
It was fractured, fragile, stitched together by secrecy and vow. But for one fleeting heartbeat, it almost felt whole.
It almost felt like a family.