Chapter Sixty-Seven #3
His gaze steadied on hers.
“It’s only us, Amerei. No one will hear but me.”
Her breath stuttered. Then, daring, she gripped his braids and pulled him down to her.
“I want to scream again.”
“Then scream.”
“I don’t want to hold it back.”
“Then don’t.”
The growl that tore from him was half prayer, half surrender. He caged her beneath him, kissing her with hunger no vow could contain. When he entered her again, her gasp broke into a cry, her body arching to meet him—no resistance, only heat, only the slick, perfect clutch of her around him.
“Look at me,” he said, voice breaking like devotion.
“Don’t look away—I want to watch you come apart.”
Her gaze snapped to his, fierce and shining. She moved with him, nails dragging fire down his back, his name tumbling from her lips.
He drove into her, slow at first, then deeper, until every motion felt like prayer turned to flame.
Then she shifted, bold through the tremor—lifting her leg higher on his back. The change wrenched a cry from her throat and a sound from deep in his chest. He steadied her, his hand sliding beneath her thigh, breath hot against her neck.
“You can scream,” he rasped, undone. “Dask, Ami—you’re so fecking beautiful when you scream.”
“Viktor—”
“Command me,” he said, voice scraped raw. “Break me, Ami. Tell me what you want, and I’ll ruin myself giving it to you.”
Her first sound was broken, then bolder.
“More,” she breathed. “Viktor—give me more.”
His control snapped.
“Say it again.”
Her head fell back, voice wild, glorious.
“Yes—Viktor. More.”
Her body welcomed him without fear. She clung to him, every thrust dragging her higher until sound became surrender—until her cry broke free, raw and unashamed, his name splintering into the dark.
And Viktor—shattered.
A cry ripped from his throat as her body seized around him, her leg still hooked across his back like she would never let him go.
His release crashed through him, breaking him open, every sound, every breath, every vow given to her.
He trembled above her—not soldier, not savior—just a man undone by the woman who’d claimed him.
And in the haze of her own unraveling, Amerei saw it—she had commanded him, and he had obeyed. Her boldness had wrecked him. Her need had unmade him. The power of it left her gasping, clutching him like she could hold the storm still.
Then—silence. Only their breath remained, rough and uneven in the afterglow. Molten light skimmed sweat-slick skin.
Two souls bound in bliss.
Two hearts echoing each other’s sighs.
“Dask…” she whispered, wonderstruck.
He pressed a kiss to her neck, a reverent brand against her skin, and gave a ragged laugh.
“Storms, Princess… I never imagined you’d say that.”
“There are,” she breathed, dazed and glowing, “no words.”
Careful now, trembling with tenderness after ruin, he eased her leg down.
“Does this mean you’re ready to sleep?” he teased, a faint smirk curving his lips.
“I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again,” she said, smiling through the haze.
He bent to her ear, his voice a low promise.
“I wouldn’t dare exhaust my queen.”
“It is I,” she said, eyes heavy with fire, “who will exhaust you, High-Captain.”
A rumble escaped him, half laugh, half growl.
“Should we sleep apart like proper royals—for the safety of the realm?” he asked, mock-solemn, though his hand never left her hip.
She hooked her leg over his waist, lips brushing his ear.
“Try it, and I’ll have your door bricked shut.”
His laugh came helpless, bright.
“Get over here.”
He rolled onto his back, dragging her with him. She collapsed against his chest, flushed, tangled, smiling into his skin. His heart stumbled at the sight—wild hair, kiss-bruised lips.
His wife. His.
Like proper royals…
The phrase should have been a jest, but it struck deep. Because even with her warmth pressed to him, a darker truth stirred: he would burn the realm before letting anyone take her from him. The feral edge flared—hot, dangerous.
Then her sigh broke it. Her fingers traced slow, soothing lines over his ribs, and the heat eased. He exhaled, kissed her hair, and forced his breath steady.
There was still war beyond these walls. The elven Senate. The sand, the blood, the dragons yet unseen. Every oath he’d sworn still waiting to be tested.
The ache cut through him, sharp and merciless. But he held her tighter, fighting back the pull of duty, just for this breath—this peace.
He let himself imagine it: a life unburdened.
A house on Dunes Way. No crowns. No thrones. Just them.
“Amerei Seraphim,” he whispered, the name like a vow spoken to the night.
She stilled, eyes glimmering, lips parting. His thumb brushed her cheek.
“This is who you are,” he said softly. “Here with me. The world may never call you that—but it’s yours.”
Her lips quivered. “Say it again.”
“Amerei Aleksandra Seraphim.”
She folded herself against his chest.
“It feels impossible.”
“It feels inevitable.”
He pressed kisses to her brow, each one a benediction.
“If I’d brought you home to Aerdania,” he said, “I’d have built you a house by the sea. Small, but strong. Wildflowers in the fence, a hearth that never goes cold. Every night I’d hold you like this while the tide sang us to sleep.”
Her voice trembled.
“I would like that… very much.”
He kissed her crown, his breath breaking.
“I know, my love. Me, too.”
His hand smoothed over her hair, slow and steady.
“Sleep now, Ami. My love. My wife. Mine.”
She hummed, drowsy and unguarded.
“My husband. My… Tory.”
He exhaled, the sound deep, quiet, content. Her soft laugh warmed the space between them.
Sleep claimed her quickly. But Viktor’s mind would not still. He had married the future queen of Casqadia, and war waited beyond their door. His Endowment burned in his veins—fierce, restless, as though hungering for something more.
A cold stirring rose beneath his skin, a whisper of wings. He swore he heard it—the dark flutter of a raven overhead.
Dragons were rising.
And they wanted his blood.