Chapter Fifty-Three
If I Cannot Have You
They had stolen one night from the world, knowing it might be their only.
The dream lingered like smoke, curling through his chest even in waking.
The Midnight.
His brother.
The thought haunted him, but dawn was still a breath away, and Amerei was warm against him. He could not hold both at once: the shadow in his blood and the light in his arms.
So he chose her.
She stirred, lashes fluttering, and he tightened his hold with a low growl.
“Stay asleep,” he muttered. “You’re trouble enough awake.”
Her lips curved against his skin.
“So cross, and the sun’s not even up.”
“Of course,” he said, tugging her closer. “You’re stealing all the covers.”
Her soft laugh melted the remnants of the dream.
For now, there was only her.
Her fingers toyed with the edge of the linen at his waist.
“So this is how you sleep? Taking up half the bed and grumbling?”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“Ask Gabriel. He’ll tell you I’m worse.”
His eyes softened, lingering on her lips.
“But I’ve never slept like this. Not once.”
She tilted her head, teasing.
“Like what?”
“Like a husband.”
The word slipped out rough and reverent, his jaw tightening as though he might regret it—but he didn’t look away.
Her breath caught, her smile trembling into something fragile.
She nuzzled into his neck.
“Then let me be your wife,” she said, “at least for this morning.”
He held her, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead, afraid she might vanish with the dawn.
“You undo me,” he murmured, voice raw. His hand traced the line of her jaw. “And still—I would spend every breath proving you’re safe in my arms.”
Her smile faltered, some old fear flickering through her boldness.
“Viktor…”
He kissed the shadow from her mouth before it could root.
“Not once have I known peace where I lie down until now. Not once—until you.”
Another kiss, softer still.
“You’ve awakened my heart to see beauty where there was once only ashes.”
Her throat tightened, lashes damp.
She held his face, breathed him in.
“I will mourn this night forever if I can’t have you.”
His lips brushed her brow.
“Not I…” He buried his face in her hair as though the words were both oath and prayer. “I’ll live in ecstasy if only for having known you.”
For a time there was only the hush of their breaths—the soft rise and fall of her cheek against his chest, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. Then he eased onto his back, staring at the canopy above as though it held a map he didn’t want to read.
“Strange thing,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I’m not Aerdania’s soldier anymore. Not yours yet, either.”
She lifted her head a little.
“Elváliev’s banner…”
Her voice fell to a whisper.
“Him.”
The word came out like a warning neither wanted to name.
Viktor’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer. “Doesn’t matter.”
But Amerei felt it—the weight of whatever he wouldn’t name settling over him like a cloak.
She slid her hand up to his heart, stubborn as ever, and said, “Let them count you however they please. You’re mine, Viktor.”
At last he looked at her, eyes storm-dark, and the corner of his mouth softened. “That, love, is the only banner I’ll ever march under.”
For one more stolen moment, the world stilled for them alone. His heartbeat, his warmth, the vow in his last words—she wanted to carry all of it into the day ahead. But dawn was already climbing over Fyreglade. She could not linger here forever.
She slipped from the warmth of his chest, the hem of Gabriel’s spare shirt brushing her thighs. She slipped it over her shoulders, folded it with care, and set it on the chair beside the bed.
Viktor, already reaching for his trousers, gave her a look that was half devotion, half agony.
She tied her robe tight, fingers fumbling the sash, and leaned once more over the bed. His hand caught hers, pulling her down for a kiss that lasted longer than it should have—slow, aching, the kind of kiss meant to keep a man through battlefields and years.
Their eyes held as she pulled away, the hush between them saying what words could not.
She eased the door open, cool air spilling against her skin—
and froze.
There, leaning against the opposite wall, pipe between his teeth, smoke curling like judgment—stood Commander Storne. His eyes cut past her into the chamber, hard as steel.
“My chambers. Second hour. For Captain Seraphim. That is an order.”