Chapter Fifty
The First Thing He Kept
The raven beneath his heart marked grief.
But in her arms, he finally kept something worth living for.
The orbs above the bed glowed low, bathing the chamber in a hushed gold.
Viktor lay half-naked with Amerei pressed to his side, his pulse still thundering like the vow had been carved into his chest.
He should have sent her back to her chambers.
He should have.
Instead, he’d broken the silence with a growl against her hair:
“Not tonight. Swear it.”
Her shoulders shook with a laugh, low and knowing.
“Swear it? Viktor Seraphim, I’ve already sworn it twice. Are you that desperate to hear me deny you again?”
His jaw flexed. “Say it.”
She tipped her face up, smile wicked in the dim. “Not tonight.”
Heat sparked through him—because her vow sounded far too much like a promise for tomorrow.
Her hair fanned over his bare arm, her shift thin as cobweb, her exhale a slow tide across his skin. Every nerve in him ached with wanting—and still, he couldn’t. One flicker of fear in her eyes and he’d sooner burn again than take what wasn’t freely hers.
When she stirred, he cursed under his breath, groping in the dark for something to cover her. The only thing he found was one of Gabriel’s spare shirts, crumpled in his bag.
He shoved it at her, gruff: “For my sanity, if nothing else.”
She laughed, slipping it over her head. The hem swallowed her thighs.
“Better?”
“Not even close.”
He dragged a pillow between them, like that pitiful barrier could cage the storm in his blood. Her smile in the dark told him she knew exactly what he was doing. She snuggled into him anyway, tracing idle circles over his ribs, lashes low. A faint grin tugged at his mouth, unbidden.
“You’re smiling,” she murmured, almost accusing, though her voice was soft as her touch. “What is it?”
He raised a brow.
“Besides you climbing into my bed against every scrap of reason?”
Her lips curved, brushing the corner of his mouth.
“Yes. Besides that.”
He tucked his arm behind his head, eyes catching the glow of the orbs above.
“Just… all I learned about you today. All you and your father have been through. Your journey here. Your middle name.”
He turned his head to look at her.
“Aleksandra,” he echoed. “That’s beautiful.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “And yours?”
He gave a small, reluctant huff. “Judah.”
She smiled.
“Viktor Judah,” she whispered. “That’s beautiful, too.”
“Common,” he muttered, the word dragging out like it tasted bitter.
“Every backcountry boy’s got a Judah in his line. My father said it would give me roots.” He shifted, voice roughening. “I never minded the roots. Only the way men like to bind you to them—as if you’re not allowed to choose where you’ll grow.”
She tucked closer, pressing her cheek against his skin.
“Strong,” she murmured, like it was a secret meant only for him.
He let the quiet linger, then asked, softer, “When were you born?”
Her smile curved against his chest.
“I’ll be twenty-two soon. On the summer solstice—the longest day of the year.”
He gave a quiet laugh.
“You won’t believe this… but I was born on the winter solstice.”
Her brows lifted, a grin tugging at her lips.
“So I’m the hottest day, and you’re the coldest night?”
“Sounds about right,” he said, though his eyes gleamed.
“My father said Adamar and I came into the world wrapped in night, meant to spend our lives chasing the dawn.”
Her teasing faded into something gentler, fingers brushing over his chest.
“And now the night has caught the day.”
His mouth twitched, that almost-smile she was starting to know.
“Caught? More like ambushed me in the dark.”
She laughed, low and warm, lips brushing over the scarred skin of his chest.
For a long while, she only listened to the steady thrum of him beneath her ear. Then—bold—her hand slid lower, fingertips grazing the ink feathering beneath his heart.
The raven’s wing.
She felt him still, every muscle tightening under her palm.
“For my brother,” he whispered.
His breath quieted.
He should have pulled away, but her touch held him through the fire.
“Adamar was the better half of me,” he said low. “He came into this world fighting for every breath, and I still lost him. Days later they sent me to Irongate, and I swore I’d never let myself love anything I couldn’t hold through flame and ash.”
His voice cracked on the last word, like it had cut him open.
Silence pressed between them, heavy and raw.
Amerei lifted her head, meeting his gaze, her hand cupping his jaw.
“Then let me be the first thing you keep.”
His chest tightened—every scar, every memory, every vow bending toward her words.
Then his mouth curved, wry, gruff, achingly Viktor.
“Even if I’m no elven prince, love?”
Her laugh broke through the weight, soft but bright.
“Especially because you’re no elven prince.”
He arched a brow.
“What’s wrong with princes?”
She traced lazy circles over his chest, voice light.
“Xavien, for one, they say has bedded half the court.”
He tipped his head.
“Then the other half should run.”
Amerei’s smile curved.
“They say he’s charming.”
Viktor’s laugh was low.
“So’s a snake, right before it bites.”
“Storm take me—” she teased, “you’re jealous.”
“Not jealous.”
He rolled, pinning her beneath him, heat burning through her shift. His mouth claimed hers—hungry, possessive—before he growled, “I don’t share.”
Her breath hitched, fingers threading through his braids. When he finally eased back, she stayed beneath him, wide-eyed with wonder. With a tender hand, she brushed the dark strands from his eyes.
“In the forest… when you sent your power through me. What was that, Viktor?”
His jaw tightened. Dask, she didn’t know.
“I pushed my power through your body, steadied your arms, your aim…” His voice roughened, breaking against the memory. “But it wasn’t just that. I felt… everything.”
Her brows knit. “Everything?”
He swallowed hard, his hand dragging down her hip as though remembering it.
“The way your breath caught when I pulled you close. The tremor in your hands when I told you what to do. Even—” His voice cracked into a groan. “Even the way you felt me against you.”
The silence after was fire.
His pulse pounded in his ears, misery and need tangling until he wanted to laugh at himself.
“So if you mean to torture me, love… you’ve done it well.”
Her question hung between them like a dare.
“And if you did it now?”
His breath dragged slow, heavy. His hand tightened at her hip, muscles taut as though holding back a storm. His voice burned against her ear.
“You wouldn’t survive it, love. Not with me in this bed. Not with me in your skin.”
The words shivered through her, heat sparking wild beneath her ribs. His restraint was a living thing, barely leashed—and for the first time she understood: his hunger was as dangerous as it was devoted.
For a breath, she only clung to him, torn between wanting and trembling. Then, softly—almost too soft—she asked, “You’d never… not without asking, would you?”
He stilled, then lowered himself beside her, pulling her against him until her head rested over his bare chest. His hand slid into her hair, steady, grounding.
“Never. You’ll never feel my power—or me—without your yes.”
Her fear quieted at that, giving way to something warmer. She pressed into the thunder of his heart, listening to the rough cadence of his breath.
His arm tightened around her, his mouth brushing her temple.
“You’re safe with me, my love.”