Ariella’s question from the night before flashed through his mind, sharp as lightning.
“Have ye changed yer mind about having an heir?”
And his thoughtless answer.
Nay.
His stomach twisted.
A terrible understanding flooded him. She had known. Or suspected. She had been trying to speak. And he had crushed her with one word.
Isla gasped softly, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh.”
Maxwell’s mouth opened, but no sound came.
The healer continued briskly, as if refusing to let emotion drown practicality. “She has been overworked and underfed. Stress has been eating her alive.”
Maxwell’s throat tightened. “Is… is she —”
“Aye,” the healer cut in, “she will likely be fine if she rests. But if she continues like this, she will lose strength. And early months are fragile.”
Maxwell’s chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t only fear.
It was a shock of something bright and terrifying.
Happiness.
A child.
His.
Ariella’s.
Life growing inside her, secret and stubborn, despite everything he had said and done.
He felt it like a sunrise in the middle of winter.
Relief came first.
Guilt followed so quickly it felt like punishment for noticing the relief at all.
He had caused this fear. This stress. This collapse. With rules he could not even remember why he’d created.
Maxwell dragged a hand through his hair, voice rough. “She wanted to leave.”
The healer’s gaze sharpened. “Because she thinks ye will reject her.”
Maxwell’s jaw clenched. “I would never —”
The healer lifted a brow. “Wouldnae ye?”
Maxwell had no answer.
Ariella stirred slightly, making a soft sound, and Maxwell leaned over her instantly, fingers brushing her hair back from her face with a tenderness that surprised him.
“Rest,” he whispered, voice low. “Ye’ll rest now.”
She did not wake, but her brow eased as if his voice reached somewhere deeper than sleep.
