Tremors roll through him and I see that he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, not impulse, not possessive instinct.
But then, because Zane is Zane, he ruins it.
“We’ll have a wedding,” he says suddenly, the words rushing out like a dam cracked open. “A huge one. Lights everywhere. A string quartet. I’ll fly your whole family out. I already thought up the vows—mine will destroy every man alive. And I found a villa in Tuscany and?—”
“Zane.” My voice sharpens.
He freezes. Blinking.Realizinghe’s fucking up again in real time.
He deflates and drops his forehead to my stomach as both hands cradle my hips. He breathes out a long, shuddering apology. “Or not,” he whispers. “Whatever you want, my love.”
My chest twists. “Say that again?” I whisper.
He lifts his head, and his eyes glow, silver ringed with red from crying, silver warmed by the kind of emotion I don’t think he’s ever shown another living soul.
“My love,” he says again, steadier. Then he adds, voice reverently,“You’re the verse I waited my whole life to write. The line that saved the song. The note that pulled me back from the edge.”
My breath catches. “Zane…”
He touches my cheek. Barely. Soft as breath. “You don’t have to cry, baby.”
“I’m pregnant,” I murmur. “I think crying is my new normal.”
His mouth curves in something tender and faintly smug. “Pregnant women get extra horny too.”
I gape at him. “Zane?—”
“I read about it,” he says solemnly. “I’m willing to serve. Selflessly. Heroically. Anytime. Any room. Any hour. Use me.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me, wet, shaky and unstoppable.
He brightens like I handed him oxygen as soft footsteps echo down the hall. I’m reminded that we still have a live audience to this carnage.
The band, Freddie, Mama Draven, all hovering like nervous wildlife.
“Ruby?” Jude calls gently. “We heard—um—laughing? Is everything okay?”
Zane’s head snaps toward the door. “We’re having a baby,” he announces.
I slap his arm. “Zane!”
The hallway explodes with noise. Cheers. A muffled “holy shit.”
Mama Draven humming a celebratory note in some astral frequency only she understands.
He opens the door and I try to hide my face in his shoulder but I’m grinning like an idiot and he knows it.
Ten minutes later, it finally dawns on him what time it is.
“Hey, fuckers! It’s the middle of the night,” he growls. “And I’d like to spend it with my future wife, so everyone needs to fuck off.”
“Zane—”
He looks down at me, wiggles his brows, and opens his arms.
I brace for the familiar routine—being thrown over his shoulder like a barbarian trophy—but he shakes his head.
“No more of that,” he murmurs. “You’re carrying precious cargo.”
