Our child. Growing inside her. Safe for now.
"Kess." Her name comes out softer than I intended.
She looks up and smiles—genuine and warm and so trusting it makes my chest ache. "Hey. Come to check on me again?"
"The mystic said the examination went well." I lower myself onto the window seat across from her. "No complications with the transformation."
"She said I'm progressing correctly, whatever that means." Kess stretches, the movement pulling her shirt tight across her breasts, and I have to force my eyes to stay on her face. "The contamination is doing what it's supposed to—making me stronger instead of killing me. Apparently I'm a textbook case."
"Good. That's good."
She studies me, head tilted. "You look guilty."
My heart stutters. "What?"
"Guilty. Like you're carrying something heavy and trying to pretend you're not." She leans forward. "You've looked like that since your rut ended. Every time you bring me tea, every time I catch you watching me—something's wrong. What is it?"
Everything.
"Nothing's wrong," I lie. "Just concerned about the contamination."
"I'm fine." She takes my hand, her fingers warm and strong, and even that simple touch sends heat curling through my chest. The bond pulses between us—weakened but still there. "Stop worrying so much. I survived your claiming. I survived your rut. Pretty sure I can handle a little transformation."
"I brought tea," I say, nodding toward the tray on the table. "It should still be warm."
She eyes the teapot. For a moment I think she's going to refuse—think she's finally going to ask the questions I can see forming behind her eyes.
"You're very insistent about that tea."
"It helps with the transformation. Keeps your body calm while it changes."
"I have been sleeping better," she admits, pouring herself a cup. "And the nausea's mostly gone. So I guess whatever's in it is working."
She drinks deep, trusting me completely, and I watch her swallow and say nothing.
"Thank you," she says, setting down the empty cup. "For taking care of me. I know I don't say it enough, but I appreciate it. Everything you've done—the training, the library, the tea. You didn't have to be kind, and you were anyway."
The words slide between my ribs like blades.
"You don't have to thank me. You're my mate. Taking care of you is just what I do."
"Well, you're doing a good job." She smiles, and it's like watching the sun rise. "I feel safer here than I ever did in the village. Feel like maybe this could actually work. Us. Together. Building something real instead of just surviving."
"I want that too." The words scrape out. "More than anything."
"Then why do you look like you're at a funeral?" She touches my face, fingers gentle on my jaw, and I have to stop myself from turning into her palm, from pressing my lips to her wrist where her pulse beats. "Every time we talk about tomorrow, about staying, about building something—you look like you're mourning something that hasn't died yet. What are you so afraid of?"
Losing you. Watching you leave when you find out what I've done.
"I'm just adjusting," I lie. "Three hundred years alone, and now suddenly I have you. Have hope. It takes getting used to."
"Well, get used to it," she says, and kisses me soft and sweet. Her mouth tastes like the tea she just drank, and I pull her closer without meaning to, deepening the kiss until we're both breathless. "Because I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."
The words lodge in my chest.
I want to believe her.
But when she finds out what I've done, she'll leave.
