Chapter One Hundred Two
Only Me
One vowed to hold her in this life. One vowed to tear apart death itself.
Her eyes opened.
“Ami. I’m here.”
But it wasn’t Viktor.
The hand at her shoulder was smooth. Steady. Present.
Xavien.
“Don’t startle, Elarien,” he whispered at last. “It’s only me.”
She stared at the ceiling, the ache behind her eyes bright and salt. She could feel his steadiness near her—the measured rise and fall of his breath, the way a hearth holds heat after flame.
Two beds.
Two promises.
One that reached for her like breath before drowning.
One that waited, unmoving, like an anchor in a storm.
Her palm slid to the sheet where the press had been hours before—weight from nowhere, vow from far away. Then to the blanket Xavien had drawn over her—present, warm.
“You came,” she breathed.
“I promised.”
Her eyes dampened, her voice small.
“Has it begun?”
“Not yet.” He smoothed a wrinkle in the sheet, then brushed a loose strand behind her ear. We have a little while.”
Her hand rose, resting lightly against his forearm.
“Xavien… don’t leave me.”
She trembled, pulse fluttering beneath fragile skin.
For a long moment, he only looked at her—at the rawness in her eyes, the fear she could not hide. He pressed her hand into the blanket, holding her as if the world might slip away.
“No summons. No council. No crown.”
He leaned closer, breath against her skin.
“Only you, Elarien. Only what you need.”
The hush deepened.
A calm so sharp it hurt.
“For as long as you’ll have me,” he said. “I am yours.”
Her chest seized. She heard him—yet over his voice, Viktor’s vow thundered in her marrow.
“Nothing will keep me from you. Not rank. Not kings. Not death itself.”
The scarred weight of him. The fire that nearly killed him. The love that defied the afterlife itself.
Now two men, two promises, pressed against her trembling heart.
One vowed to hold her in this life.
One vowed to tear apart death itself.
Rain and fire.
Anchor and flame.
Both unyielding. Both hers.
Her eyes closed, the ache of it climbing her throat until she could hardly breathe.
“Elarien…” Xavien whispered.
She clung tighter, her voice breaking.
“Don’t leave me.”
His hand found the back of her head. Slowly, he guided her forward until she rested against his shoulder. She wanted to resist, wanted to pull back—but dask, the warmth of his skin, the gentleness of his hands.
“I won’t leave you,” he murmured against her hair. “But we must leave this room. Before Jasmine stirs.”
Amerei looked up at him—he was already smiling, like he knew what she would say.
“How did you get in here, Xavien?”
His dark eyes glistened.
“Love, this is the consort’s suite. It’s made for such… conveniences.”
Then, too soft to be overheard: “Come. Quietly.”
He rose, drawing back the blanket, and slipped the black silken robe over her shoulders. She gathered her hair to one side. His hands lingered there, hovering above her skin. His fingers flexed once, twice… then laid gently against her arms, turning her to face him.
“This way.”
His brows arched, playful, as he pressed the panel in the wall. Wood shifted, hinges sighed. A narrow passage opened into shadow and silk-lit air.
She froze, half awe, half scandal.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Of course I have.”
His mouth tipped, shameless.
“Still haven’t slept with a soldier though…”
Her pulse jumped.
She drew back a step, steadying the robe’s tie.
“No—you’ve only a secret door to your—”
“Bedroom,” he finished, amused.
She stepped into the orb-lit corridor, eyes everywhere.
“Does your wife know about it?”
A smirk. The wall slid shut.
“Shall I lead you like a thief past the guards, or like a prince in his own house?”
“It depends,” she said. “Do the walls have ears?”
He caught both her hands.
“I’ll get you to sunrise without a single scandal…”
A flick toward his bedroom door.
“And if we’re very good… we’ll still deserve one.”
She tugged.
He held a heartbeat longer, then let go with a grin.
“You’re everything they say you are,” she huffed, pacing.
“And you’re as curious as a maiden roaming barracks.”
His tone dipped, dangerous.
She cut him a look.
“Too familiar, love?”
A raised brow. A bitten lip.
Her fingers found the next seam.
“I’ll have you know he didn’t take me when he had the chance. He waited.”
“Pitiful.”
“Noble.”
“Boring.”
She pressed the door—
his bedroom.
Velvet and shadow wrapped the chamber, its canopy steeped in silks the color of midnight. Perfume lingered, jasmine and starflower, sweet as memory. Across from the bed stood a mirror—deliberate, as all things were with Xavien. A room shaped to tempt, to watch, to claim.
“And this…” he whispered at her ear, “is where line Draekenra was forged. Where we’ll carry it forward, love.”
She turned on him, smirk for smirk, and brushed her hand over the coverlet. “Clever. You’ve not even changed the drapes. The air still smells like her.”
He crossed between her and the exit, playful and unrepentant.
“Who needs a bed? I see a bench, a chair. Window ledge, if you’re feeling feisty.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
She shoved past him.
His fingers ghosted her sleeve.
“Careful, Elarien,” he murmured. “I tend to live up to praise.”
She raised her head, defiant.
“Save your praise for the man I love.”
His smile faltered, just for a breath.
A shadow crossed his face.
Then he straightened, nodding toward the door, as if nothing had happened at all. “Come.”
They slipped from his bedroom into the antechamber. The farther door stood ajar, lamplight breathed over onyx and the wide, black basin.
Her breath fell silent.
Xavien touched her shoulders.
“We can wait,” he said, nudging her toward the parlor. “I’ve prepared food, wine… ale. We need leave this chamber for nothing. Some tea perhaps, to settle you?”
Viktor’s voice swept through her memory:
“Dask, Ami—you'll live. Leave cups of tea scattered across Xavien’s tables, enough to drive him mad.”
“No,” she murmured back. “I’m ready.”
He bowed his head and led her forward.
Amerei stopped on the threshold.
The marble floor gleamed spotless, but she could still feel Deglan there—blood pooling, the slap of his body against stone. The robe went colder on her skin.
Xavien read it in a heartbeat.
“Don’t look at the room,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
“Look at me, love. Only me.”
She did—and the difference split her chest.
One vow burned. This one begged.
Mischief loosened Xavien’s mouth. He tipped his head toward the basin.
“The old rites say a pool wakes quickest to two offerings,” he mused, wicked-dry. “Blood… or passion spent.”
Color scorched her cheeks.
“Xavien.”
His smile gentled. He touched her elbow and leaned to whisper.
“I’m teasing you. Breathe, Elarien.”
“Breathe, Ami.”
Her pulse stumbled. The remembered voice felt warmer than the one at her ear, a promise that had steadied storms.
Xavien brought her to the rim and let her see her own reflection. Shadows rippled, caught in a shimmer of light.
“We’ll ask it for nothing but water and will,” he said, voice steady.
“I’ll pour the brine. You keep watch. If the image stumbles, squeeze my wrist—I pull us out. No needless risk.”
She nodded—once, twice—breath finding rhythm with his.
He unstoppered a vial, dusted salt across the surface.
The water shivered.
“Ready?”
Her fingers slipped to the inside of his wrist, warm and living.
“Ready.”
Xavien set his hand over the water—spoke something ancient, something quiet.
The final utterance:
“Seraphim.”