Chapter Ninety-One
I Loved You Then
She loved him. Before the fire. Before the crown. Before she knew he’d make her his.
They stepped out of the command ring and the night swallowed them whole—smoke, oil, leather, a thousand hushed movements stitched into one dark, breathing thing.
Amerei didn’t let go of his hand. He didn’t ask her to.
“Follow me,” she whispered, pulse quickening like the beat of a war drum.
Past mess lines, past stacked shields and sleeping horses, a ribbon of stone gleamed where torchlight failed. Behind Storne’s pavilion, granite walls cradled a shallow bath, water spilling in a steady trickle. The sound was soft, secret, small enough to be theirs alone.
She yanked him through the curtain and into the lamplight’s edge, the canvas walls breathing with the night. A sliver of moon caught the cut of his cheek, the new severity to him—the word that still rang in her bones.
“Commander,” she breathed, almost a dare.
His eyes burned.
“Queen.”
Then he was on her—fingers digging into her waistband, his other hand locking at the nape of her neck. She rose into him with equal force, crashing against him like they’d been waiting hours for this moment.
The kiss broke ragged, his forehead pressed to hers, their breath clashing.
“If I close my eyes,” he rasped, “I can still see the forest where I first saw you.”
Her laugh was breathless, wild, her fingers tearing at the ties of her tunic.
“When I was still a handmaiden,” she gasped, tugging his mouth back to hers, “and you were still a scout.”
His hand stayed at her neck as his mouth wandered lower, down her collarbone until her breasts spilled free. She tugged at his uniform—he dragged it over his head in one swift motion, his mouth claiming her skin again before the fabric hit the ground.
“I’ve loved you… since the moment I first saw you.”
He sank to one knee at the shadowed edge of the basin, palms sliding up the backs of her thighs.
Her tunic fell away in a rush, pooling at her feet.
His mouth lingered at the soft plane of her belly, as if sealing a future he couldn’t yet speak.
For a heartbeat he stilled—memorizing, almost worshiping—before the need to have her broke through.
Her leggings slowed him, stubborn against her skin. He gripped the fabric and tore it down in one fierce pull.
His palms climbed back—over calves, over knees—until they locked at her waist, hauling her up onto the granite lip of the basin.
She gasped at the cold stone, but he was already stepping between her legs, the warmth of him closing in, water murmuring low at her back. His hands slid up her thighs, heat chasing away the chill.
“The night you brought me back to Sevrak,” she panted, words spilling like shattered glass, “you ran yourself half-dead. I went to Gabriel’s tent—stripped you of your armor…”
The smell of iron, wet leather, buckles clattering in the dark—it all burned back to life.
“I’ve been around soldiers all my life. But I never wanted a man like that. Never.”
His lips pressed hard to her throat.
“You stripped me,” he rasped. “And saved me.”
Her breath hitched, bright.
“Then in my tent,” she whispered, tightening around his hips as his fingers pressed, slow and torturous, “the night we fell asleep together—your breath on my neck, the way you held me—”
Her voice broke, raw and aching.
“I loved you then. I swear I loved you then.”
His brow pressed to hers as he eased into her, inch by aching inch, until her lips trembled in a moan. The world narrowed to that stretch, that heat. His hips began to drive, each thrust deeper, harder, eyes locked on hers.
“You almost kissed me… at the tavern,” she gasped, the memory crashing through—wood under her palms, ale and smoke, his shadow leaning close. “Gabriel came in—”
“Fecking Gabriel,” he growled, crushing the corner of her mouth like he could erase the almost.
“Fecking Gabriel,” she echoed, a breathless laugh breaking into a sigh.
“That night I let myself imagine—you. Like this.”
“Like this?”
He thrust harder. A cry tore from her throat, pleasure rippling through her, her body arching against him.
“Yes—Viktor—yes—”
Her head tipped back.
“You saved me—dragon’s breath, the wall—”
His hands clamped harder at her hips.
“I’d do it again.”
The air chilled for an instant—like winter on the tongue—gone almost before she could name it. A faint glimmer threaded his irises before fading, like frost catching light.
“I came to you—Fyreglade,” she whispered, breathless, rain and cypress flooding her senses. “And you didn’t take me.”
Her hands skimmed the scars along his back.
“I knew… I couldn’t live without you.”
It all blurred—armor falling, a cot’s rough blanket, a tavern’s half-stolen kiss, a hall burning with fire and screams—every memory folding into the next until there was no seam, no before, no after.
Only this. Only him. Only her.
And beneath it all, the faintest hum, like snow beginning to fall—warning, promise, power blooming between them.
He caught her under the thighs and lifted, the cold bite of granite at her spine as his arms locked her tight against him.
“Tory—”
His mouth stole the plea.
One forearm braced beneath her, the other palm spread across her shoulder blades—holding, anchoring—and then he thrust, slow and devastating, each press deeper than the last until her hands clawed into his braids.
“The tavern,” she panted, voice frayed. “I imagined—”
“—this?”
His jaw flexed, arms tightening as he drove harder.
“Exactly this.”
His mouth curved—hungry, almost disbelieving.
“Mm,” he rasped against her throat. “My shameless girl.”
He hitched her higher, and she shuddered, her cry breaking as he answered with another deep drive, merciless, consuming.
“My beautiful girl.”
Warm water slipped along her spine. Her fingers tangled in his hair. He held her there—one arm steel beneath her, the other spread hard at her nape.
“Say it,” he demanded, eyes burning into hers.
Her lips grazed his ear.
“Commander.”
Something dark lit in him—he drove harder.
“Again.”
“Commander.”
He groaned, holding her at the edge, each stroke merciless, emptying thought.
“Tory—” she broke, urgent, desperate, “—cover my mouth.”
His breath fractured. He pressed his palm to her lips, hovering. She caught his wrist and dragged it tight, eyes locked to his.
Fierce. Deliberate. Yes.
“Good girl,” he rasped, voice gone low and ruined.
Then he thrust—controlled, relentless—pinning her to the stone as the bath lapped and shivered beneath them. Her cry vanished into his hand. He felt her clamp around him, felt the quake climb her spine—
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She obeyed, and what she saw in his eyes undid her—the wreckage, the worship.
“Commander Seraphim,” she gasped into his palm, the title breaking her apart.
He shattered.
The name ripped through him like fire and thunder, searing every last thread of restraint. With a groan that was half vow, half surrender, he spilled into her, holding her tight through the quake, covering her cries, keeping her his until the last tremor left them both wrecked and shaking.
Then she felt it before she saw it—the hum under his skin, the air thinning like a breath of winter drawn sharp. He pulled back, just enough. His eyes opened to her.
The fiery blue kindled, light blooming through, a mist unfurling like frost on air.
She cupped his face, thumbs circling the glow.
“My commander,” she whispered. “My weapon. My husband.”
The radiance deepened. His jaw set, as if bracing a line only he could see.
He exhaled like a vow. The light ebbed, leaving the clear, sky blue that was his alone for her.
“I’ll know you,” she breathed.
Her fingers touched his brow.
“I will always know.”