"When he lets you sleep," she added, grinning.
They had no pregnancy to announce—Emily was a slim woman, and the waistband of her dress made no attempt to disguise that fact tonight—but I predicted they'd have a daughter soon enough, if they wanted one.
"Will we start the announcements?" I asked Torion, leaning against his shoulder.
He shook his head, and his arm lifted to tug me closer to his side. "We'll finish them. Are you still eating?"
"I'm a little too nervous," I admitted.
Torion rubbed my shoulder. "I'll make sure there's a tray in our room when this is over. We can take our leave before the betas get too deep in their celebrations. Are you ready?"
Nerves spiked, little bolts of ice that shot up my spine, urging me to retreat. But Torion's arm was heavy and warm over my shoulders, and by the time they reached the nape of my neck, his steady presence melted them away. I nodded once, and hesmiled before his gaze flicked over my shoulder, sharing a look with one of the men at the far right of the hall.
A bench squeaked as the man rose, and the large rustle of conversation fell away easily, as if everyone had only been biding their time until this moment.
"Grave Hills will welcome a son by harvest," Lord McKinney called out loudly. He hadn't brought his omega with him, but he beamed and clasped a hand over his heart.
As the whole room held its breath, another man rose from his seat, this time holding a young, blushing woman's hand in his. "Grave Hills will welcome two sons by harvest."
One by one, the men stood from their seats, adding to the tally. Three sons, four sons, five, and on and on it went. I hadn't attended the last accounting feast, but I'd heard the number murmured through the village—eight sons. Only eight, and if I hadn't lost my child, it might've been nine. But by the end of the nine months, only six of those sons took their first breath in the world, and only five of the eight mothers survived.
Torion lifted my hand to his lips, grazing a kiss back and forth over my white knuckles, his gaze holding mine until I realized I hadn't breathed properly as the tally rose higher and higher. I tried to release my viselike grip on his hand, but he covered it with his free one, understanding and flickers of worry in his gaze. How could any person understand another so well without a word between them? I sighed, and Torion's lips curved gently in unison with my own.
"Grave Hills will welcome fourteen sons by harvest."
There was a pause of quiet, a hush of expectation, as the room held its breath and waited. Still, Torion held my gaze. Gentler now, I squeezed his hand in mine, nodding slightly. His eyes never left mine as he leaned forward, pressing his chair back from the table, rising up. His hand tugged at mine, held tight, and I found myself rising from my seat as well, staring upat him in a daze, forgetting the room and the crowd and anyone but my alpha in front of me.
"Grave Hills will welcome?—"
The door to the keep banged open with a crash, and I caught the barest glimpse of a familiar dark head storming out—Malcolm. I didn't enjoy his anger, and I didn't mourn it either. All thoughts of my former beta were brushed away by the sounds of chairs scraping over the floor and cheers rising up from around the room. Any words Torion said that followed were lost beneath the rousing cries of celebration, although it hardly mattered. We all knew what would be said.
And of course, privately and quietly, we all knew the words would be a lie. Sons would be lost before harvest. Women too.
Chapter Thirty-Two
BRIGID
Iwoke frowning, squinting at the bright light glaring down at me for a moment, groaning as I tried to move from the hard ground, and then paused as I recalled where I was and why.
Outside, napping in the sunshine underneath an umbrella for shade. I closed my eyes once more, lifting my chin and letting the light summer breeze coast down the hill and over where I lay. Torion had been the one to insist that even if I were set on working outside in the garden, there was always somewhere for me to take my rest if I wanted it. I'd stubbornly insisted the idea was foolish and then cheerfully enjoyed the accommodations every day since.
I propped myself up on one hand, the other falling to my stomach unconsciously as a funny fluttering and popping sensation simmered there. My brow furrowed, eyes skipping over to the basket of fruit preserves and bread I'd brought out with me. It was well past the time I should've experienced nausea, but this was different, not unpleasant but foreign, and?—
Heat bloomed in my chest, and a soothing brush blanked my thoughts as it struck me.
The quickening—the movement of life inside of me.
Mychild.
My eyes fell closed as tears welled there, my throat tightening. Fire burned in my chest, but it was a soothing warmth, rushing through my veins, protective even. My dragon and my child. I didn't care if I never had wings, and I didn't want to transform into a dragon at this moment, but I was grateful for the reassurance, the gentle blanket that swooped over me as the growing babe announced itself with faint taps and bubbles.
Sun shone red through my eyelids, and dragon fire shimmered in my heart. The activity of the keep was a gentle murmur around me, familiar voices calling to one another. I was here in the safety of this place, alone with my child. And my dragon, quiet and watchful as she seemed to be, hidden away inside of me, would assure that I would survive, and the babe would survive.
On a sunny hill in an herb garden, tucked under an umbrella, I knew for the first time in years that I was safe.
"Brigid? You're crying."
I opened my eyes, and my smile beamed up at Torion. I wondered if maybe our bond had drawn him to me when I'd felt the first movement, or if he was just following the magnet that always seemed to draw us together.
