"You're enjoying this." She narrows her eyes at me. "Making me repeat myself over and over. It's payback for something, isn't it?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Liar."
But she's almost smiling, and the bond pulses with something that isn't anger.
We've fallen into a rhythm over these weeks. Not comfortable exactly—there's too much history for that, too much hurt still unhealed. But functional. Productive. We work together during the days and retreat to our separate spaces at night, and somewhere in between we've started talking like people who might actually like each other.
I'm not fool enough to think that means she's forgiven me. The tea, the hidden pregnancy, the texts I removed from the archives—all of it still sits between us like a wall we're slowly dismantling brick by brick.
But the wall is shorter than it was. And some days I can almost see over it.
The fourth week, I find her asleep at her workspace.
It's late—long past the hour when she should have retired to her chambers. But she's been pushing herself harder than ever, driven by the timeline that gets tighter every day. Five months pregnant now, her belly round and heavy, the twins growing stronger every day.
Including our son. Including the curse he carries.
She's slumped over a manuscript, one hand still resting on the page, her breathing slow and even. In sleep, the fierce determination that defines her softens into something younger, more vulnerable. The candles have burned low, casting warm shadows across her face.
I should wake her. Should send her to bed, where she'll be more comfortable, where the twins won't be compressed by the awkward position.
Instead, I cross the room and lift her into my arms.
She stirs but doesn't wake—just makes a soft sound and turns her face into my chest, her body relaxing against mine with a trust she'd never show while conscious. The bond floods with warmth, hers and mine tangled together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
Mine, my dragon rumbles.Ours.
I carry her through dark corridors to her chambers, shouldering open the door, laying her down on the bed with as much care as I'm capable of. She's still wearing her day clothes—I should probably leave, let her sleep in peace.
But when I try to pull away, her hand catches my wrist.
"Stay." The word is barely audible, more breath than sound. Her eyes are still closed. "Just... stay."
I shouldn't. There are a thousand reasons I shouldn't.
I kick off my boots and lie down beside her anyway.
She doesn't reach for me. Doesn't pull me close or curl against my chest. Just keeps her hand wrapped around my wrist, like she needs the physical proof that I'm there.
I lie in the darkness and listen to her breathe and feel the twins shifting in her belly through the bond. Our son, restless and aggressive, already fighting. Our daughter, quieter, gentler, the one we're racing to save.
Two weeks until the curse activates fully.
Two weeks to master the ritual and gather the final components and hope that her warrior omega bloodline is strong enough to metabolize three centuries of divine rage.
Somewhere in the small hours, her breathing changes. Deepens.
"I can feel you brooding." Her voice is rough with sleep. "It's very loud."
"My apologies. I'll brood more quietly."
"Appreciated." A pause. Then, softer: "You didn't leave."
"You asked me to stay."
"I didn't think you would."
