Chapter Forty-One
Braided in Silence
Her hands wove his hair, but it was the breath between them that bound tighter than any braid.
Viktor eased back into the wooden chair, a groan catching low in his throat as the bandages stretched across his chest. Amerei leaned over him, slipping an uncorked vial into his hand, her whisper a conspiratorial hush.
“Father passed this to Matteo last night. Hurry—before Misses Roland comes.”
“Bless you,” he murmured, grimacing as he downed it in one swallow. The liquor burned hot as forge-flame, but steadied him all the same.
Amerei whisked the vial away, hid it behind a vase, then returned to him. Her hands rose to his hair, fingers combing slow through the dark strands. His eyes shut on instinct, breath hitching at the rake of her nails against his scalp.
“You like it this way?” he asked, voice gone low.
“Your hair?” she teased, twirling a strand around her finger.
“Yes. I keep it long for the run, but I could cut it if—”
Her soft laugh broke against him.
“Viktor Seraphim. Even if you shaved it all off, you’d still undo me with a single look.”
His mouth curved faintly. “That so?”
“That so,” she whispered, brushing her lips across his temple before her fingers returned to the slow, soothing work. Her touch was a vow she didn’t yet know she’d made. When she finished the last braid, she gathered the strands at his nape.
“Does your mother or father come from Eilles?” she asked, sitting down across from him.
“My mother,” he said quietly, gaze dropping.
“I used to dream she went back there when she left us… but it’s the one place I’ve never been.”
The ache in his tone made her still. She only touched his shoulder, silent. When he blinked the shadow away, she offered a small smile—a gentle gift of light.
“Does your father still live in Westport?”
“He does,” Viktor said at once, warmth kindling in his voice.
“Father and his old, wiry dog—we found him when Adamar and I were ten.” He shook his head.
“I’ve no idea how that creature’s still alive.
But Father swears he makes a better dockhand than I ever did. Still hobbles to the water every day.”
Amerei’s smile bloomed. “I should like to meet him someday.”
You will… Viktor’s mouth tugged, crooked. …at our wedding.
Misses Roland bustled in from the next room, eyes sharp with curiosity.
“Lady Zrynon, do tell—what made your father choose this one for you? Besides those blue eyes, of course.”
Viktor straightened. Lady Zrynon. She thinks me noble.
Amerei rested a hand on Viktor’s knee, her tone composed and silken.
“He descends from a long line of Eillish royals.”
“Ah?” Misses Roland brightened.
Do I now? Viktor’s glance slid sideways, lips twitching.
Amerei leaned closer, solemn but playful.
“On her first trip to the mainland, his mother fell in love with his Aerdanian father. No title could keep her from him.” She hummed.
“They lived quietly until the time came to find wives for their sons. And then, one fine day in Rhidian…” Her gaze found his.
“…this lost prince of the Midnight Isle came to me.”
Their eyes caught, heat and humor tangling between them until the tale itself began to sound like truth.
Then she laughed first—light, musical, scattering the spell.
Misses Roland shook her head, half-laughing. “Eillish royals. You almost had me, dear.”
Her husband appeared then, weapons belt in hand, the leather dull in the light.
“Found this in the stables after the ruckus last night,” he said, offering it to Amerei. “Didn’t want you riding off without it.”
“Yours?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Viktor said, inclining his head. “Thank you.”
The Rolands withdrew, footsteps fading down the hall.
Amerei turned the belt in her hands, the leather worn from duty. When Viktor reached for it, she shook her head. “I’ll do it.”
He hesitated—just long enough to decide—then took her hand and stood.
“You needn’t raise your arms,” she said gently, already stepping into him.
Her fingers brushed his hips as she looped the strap around his waist, slow and careful—Dask—the clasp catching on his breath.
Her hands lingered, her eyes finding his as she rose.
“Don’t let me hurt you.”
“You couldn’t,” he rasped—and pulled her in.
His mouth found hers—hungry, reckless. Pain twisted through him but he didn’t stop. He kissed her like a man fighting through fire, every breath both devotion and defiance. Her fingers tangled in his hair, trembling, until they clenched on his belt and drew him closer still.
A groan broke from him, raw and needful. “Amerei…”
She kissed him harder, fiercer—
until footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Gabriel.
Viktor pressed his brow to hers, breath ragged. “Storm take him.”
He tried to turn, but Amerei held him. Her gaze lifted over his shoulder, meeting Gabriel’s in the doorway. Her pulse thundered, but defiance steadied her hand.
She held Viktor’s face and kissed him again—slow, deliberate, unshaken—as Gabriel watched. A promise sealed in full view of judgment.
Only then did she draw back, breathless, fingers slipping from his jaw.
Gabriel’s voice cut through, flat. “Storne says it’s time to mount up.”
He turned away, leaving silence in his wake.
Viktor’s brow stayed pressed to hers, his pulse hammering against her lips. Amerei’s resolve steadied, an anchor in the storm Gabriel had conjured.
She knew where this fight would happen.
Outside.
In the open.
In front of them all.