Chapter Eighty-Four
They Were Waiting
Her taste still on his tongue, her breath still in his chest—
yet at the foot of the hill, they were waiting.
Dispatched by the hand of
Queen Amerei Aleksandra Zrynon Storne
Queen of Casqadia
To His Highness, Prince Xavien Draekenra
Xavien,
I write not as Casqadia’s heir, but as Amerei.
You once told me to enter as if I were already Draekenra. Will you walk your father’s court now with the same conviction?
Aerdania burns. I have seen its streets—smoke heavy, the wounded lying beneath open skies. They do not turn from elven aid. They beg for it.
Go before your father. Speak as if the fire were at your own gates. Do this, and it will not be forgotten—by them, or by me.
With respect,
Amerei
Amerei sat at the kitchen table, quill poised above parchment, candlelight casting a golden halo across the sweep of her hair. The nib scratched steady and precise, letters dark and deliberate unfurling across the page.
Gabriel’s finger tapped just above the line—to enter as if I were already Draekenra.
“Good.” His mouth curved. “Play his pride.”
Amerei lifted the corner of the parchment, murmuring the words beneath her breath.
At the hearth, Issachar tended the kettle of emberbrew, stirring once, slow. His gaze lingered on the fire before it lifted to her, something wary flickering behind his eyes.
“Nothing’s ever simple with the noble class.”
Then, more quietly—almost as if the words cost him:
“How long will you let the prince believe he can have you?”
The quill stilled.
Amerei’s hand faltered, then drew back from the page.
How did he—
She pressed the pen down again, harder this time, and signed her name with an unshaken flourish.
“As long as I must.”
Gabriel leaned over her, sprinkling drying powder across the parchment.
She lifted her gaze across the room. Viktor stood waiting by the ladder, dark and silent. He nodded once.
She continued, voice steady though her hands trembled as she dipped her seal into wax.
“Casqadia is falling. Our noble houses were outcast the morning after they pledged fealty to me. Xavien took them in on his lands.”
The wax hardened. She pressed the seal.
“As for military aid—he’s secured us the Sagittarii of Vykenra. I’ll ask for more soldiers… when the moment is right.”
She handed the letter to Gabriel.
“Aerdania needs Xavien’s help now.”
Issachar lifted two mugs from a hook.
“And he’ll give it?”
“He’s obsessed,” Gabriel muttered.
Issachar’s gaze flicked between Viktor and Amerei.
“He knows about you two?”
“Not that we’ve married.” Viktor leaned back against the ladder, arms folded, eyes like storm. “But he knows. He knows damn well she’s mine.”
Amerei’s pulse leapt—heat and pride tangling in her chest. She didn’t look away from him, didn’t soften the claim. She let it stand, fierce and unshaken, because it was true.
Issachar opened the door for Gabriel, a wry smile tugging slow at his lips.
“Then let him ache for what he can’t have. Nothing drives a man harder than envy—and nothing cuts deeper than knowing she’ll never be his.”
Gabriel huffed a laugh. “That’s what we’re hoping for.
Letter in tow, he was off.
Viktor turned toward the ladder, nodding at Amerei.
“Come, Ami.”
She set the quill aside, smiling gently at Issachar before crossing to Viktor.
“Gabriel’s never been up here,” he said as he climbed. He shoved open the trapdoor tucked into the ceiling, the wood smooth from years of use. “Not sure he’d even fit.”
A faint, crooked smile tugged at his mouth as he reached back for her. She took his hand. His grip was warm, steady—pulling her into his world.
His bedroom.
Small. Low-slung rafters, a bed just wide enough for two, shutters half-open to the western sea. The salt wind drifted through, carrying the hush of waves against the rocks.
Amerei stepped inside quietly, eyes roaming. Her fingers grazed the shelf above his desk: a leather-bound sketchbook, a bird carved no bigger than her palm, a folded shirt that still smelled of him.
Viktor dropped the hatch closed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with a stillness that didn’t quite mask the heat in his gaze.
“You really lived here?” she asked softly.
“I still do,” he said. His tone came rougher than he meant, like a shield he couldn’t lower. “When I’m not at Windmere.”
She turned slowly, the light catching her green eyes as she gestured to the window sill. “His things?”
He nodded.
“There used to be two beds in here. One stacked on the other.”
Her smile tilted.
“Did you sleep on the top?”
“Of course,” he said, mock-offended. “Adamar never could stand heights.”
Her hand found the corner of the sketchbook. She looked at him—his jaw tightened. For a moment, he almost told her to leave it shut. But then he gave a silent nod.
The first page—a charcoal drawing of the tattoo on his side.
“You…”
“The morning after he died.” Viktor’s voice came low. “I sat here alone. Watched a raven land at my window. It just stood there. Silent. Like it was daring me to break.”
He shut his eyes, remembering.
Amerei only listened.
“I don’t know who moved first—me or the bird. But it took off in a single thrust, and I thought… if only I had wings, I could fly away too.”
His gaze shifted to the window, dark as the sea.
“It never left me. Not really. I’d see its shadow sometimes. So I sketched its feather. Paid the tattooist on Rand’s Cove twice the coin to keep his mouth shut and cut it into my skin.”
His mouth hardened.
“So no one could take him from me. Not again.”
Amerei didn’t look down at the sketch again. She closed the book and set it gently on the shelf.
Then she crossed to him, barefoot on the wood, and slid her fingers along his collar. Her eyes caught his, unflinching.
“And what do you need now, Tory?” she whispered, daring him to feel, daring him to take.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Then lower. His body answered before his voice did. He stepped into her space, chest rising sharp against hers.
“I need…”
His voice was raw, almost breaking.
He drove her back until her spine struck the wall.
“I need to feel alive.”
Then he kissed her.
Not soft. Not slow.
Feral.
Her hands caught his jaw as he pinned her, one thigh sliding between hers. She gasped, his name breaking from her lips like prayer. His hands gripped her hips—starved, reckless.
“If I were in a dress,” she breathed against him, “you’d be on your knees right now.”
He froze for a heartbeat—picturing it.
Then a growl tore from him, low and hungry.
“I still might be.”
His thumbs slid beneath the waistband of her leggings, pausing just long enough to rasp, “Let me?”
“Yes.”
One rough pull and the fabric slid down her hips. His mouth followed, teeth grazing her skin as if he could brand her with need alone.
She trembled, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Tory—”
He looked up once, breath hot against her. A low, guttural sound tore from his chest. Then he lowered his head again, devouring her like a man starved, dragging a broken moan from her lips.
“Come here,” she gasped, back arching against the wall.
He rose in a flash, lips trailing fire up her waist, chest pressed to hers, and ripped his shirt over his head. The fabric hit the floor and he was on her again, mouth crushing hers, hands gripping her hips hard.
Her tunic laces tangled in her fingers, but he didn’t wait—he tore them loose himself, pulling the fabric apart until she was bare against him. His breath hitched, almost a groan, before his mouth closed over her breast, rough, worshipping, relentless.
She tipped her head back with a cry, and he growled against her skin, “Mine.” And again, lower, desperate, starved— “Mine.”
Before she could answer, he dropped to his knees again, dragging her tunic wide as his mouth claimed her, unashamed. She clutched at the rafters, at his hair, at anything that might anchor her as the world fell away.
“Viktor—” It was broken, her hips bucking helplessly into his hold.
He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her until her breath shattered. His grip locked on her thighs, keeping her open, keeping her his.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the cry that threatened to break free, her body trembling against him as he drove her higher.
Every stroke, every lick, was fevered, as if he’d sworn his life to unmaking her in this moment alone. Her knees gave out, but he held her there, devouring her until she broke.
Shaking, she collapsed into his arms, dragging him up to her, lips crashing against his. Salt, sweat, the taste of her still on his tongue—it was all there, wild and unrepentant.
He pressed his forehead to hers, laughter low and warm against her lips.
“Tell me, my queen—have I pleased you?”
Her fingers slipped to his jaw, stroking along the rough line of stubble. Breathless, defiant, she murmured, “I’m not finished with you yet.”
His fingers threaded in her hair, mouth claiming her neck, her collarbone—her lips parting for him again when—
“Viktor?”
They froze.
The voice came from the ladder.
“Dask, Gabriel,” Amerei hissed, half-buried laugh breaking through her gasp.
“What?” Gabriel called back, suspicious.
Viktor’s brows shot up, fire still in his eyes. He bent close, lips grazing her ear as he growled, “This is not over.”
“Tonight,” she whispered back, fierce as a vow.
His smirk curved dangerous.
“Tonight. But quiet.”
They stole one last kiss, hot and lingering, before he called down, rough-voiced, “We’ll be there in a moment.”
He found his shirt thrown across the side of the bed and yanked it on. From his bag, he drew a small sachet and shook it once.
“Nearly forgot,” he said.
She tilted her head, still flushed, still catching her breath.
“What is it?”
“The real protector of the realm,” he said dryly, tossing the siring-cease into his mouth. He grimaced at the taste, swallowing hard. “Keeps me from siring an heir. Dask, it’s foul.”
She laughed, rummaging through her own bag until she found a small vial of silverleaf, swirling pale and potent in the glass. She lifted it between them like a prize. “This ensures I can withstand you, High-Captain.”
His grin turned wicked. “You sure you brought enough?”
She shoved him, but he caught her waist and pulled her flush against him, mouth brushing her ear as he rasped, “Gabriel gets us just this once. Next time, I tie him to a tree.”
Her smirk curved sharp.
“Thought you might call down lightning.”
His mouth grazed her temple.
“It’s Gabriel, love. We only want to maim him—not kill him.”
The laugh slipped from her lips, but the heat in her eyes lingered. He held her gaze too long, his thumb stroking at her waist, silent promise thrumming between them.
Tonight.
A hard thump rattled the wall planks.
“Tory!” Gabriel’s voice, loud enough to make them both start. “Dask—get down here. You’ve got to see this.”
Viktor groaned, forehead dropping to Amerei’s shoulder. His shirt still hung half-untucked, her hair mussed where his hands had been in it. She tugged his collar back into place, breath still unsteady.
“Tonight,” he promised, before turning toward the ladder.
He shoved it open, climbing down into the light that spilled from below. Amerei followed, smoothing her hair as her heart still pounded.
Gabriel stood at to window, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth.
“Look…”
They stepped to him—
And froze.
At the foot of the hill, the whole of Westport had gathered. Men, women, children—faces gaunt, eyes raw with grief and hope alike. A hush rolled through the crowd as heads turned, voices whispering his name.
Tory Seraphim.
They had come for him.