Not the kind of magic that comes and goes, or just hangs around the edges. This is the real deal. Old. It hums in the walls, settles in the air, sharp and cold, like the first snap of winter. I worked the wards in myself, layer by layer, until the place felt safe. If you know where to look, you can spot the faint blue glow along the doorframes and windows, even in the cracks between the floorboards. No one gets in unless I say so. No one messes with what’s mine.
A week. That’s how long it’s been since I stepped back into Samantha’s world. Since I saw her round with my child, her eyes wide with fear and fury and something else. Something that looked too much like relief when she realized I wasn’t leaving again.
I’ve spent the week watching Samantha go about her days, her hand drifting to her stomach like she’s checking to make sure the baby’s still there. She laughs more than I deserve, considering everything I put her through. Ella’s been watching me too, her suspicion wound tight. She’s got that look Everett sometimes gets, like she’s already figured me out. I almost tell her she’d make a decent elf, just to see if she’ll roll her eyes at me.
The bakery’s been quiet, at least. No shadows in the corners, no demons or angels hanging around, waiting to make trouble. I know they’re out there. I can feel it, like a low buzz under my skin. But for now, they’re keeping their distance.
I should be focused on the real problems. The wards, the threats, the plan. Instead, I keep catching myself staring at her.
Samantha leans over the oven, pulling out a tray of something that smells so good it’s almost criminal. Her hair’s coming loose from its bun, curls sticking to her neck. The apron’s covered in flour, the ties barely making it around her belly. My kid. Our kid.
My chest tightens.
She’s always been beautiful. But now? Now she’s a goddess. Every curve is softer, fuller, her hips flaring, her breasts heavy. The way she moves. Slow, deliberate, like she’s carrying the weight of the world. It makes my hands itch to touch her. To worship her.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, and watch as she sets the tray down and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. The baby kicks, a sharp little jolt that makes Samantha gasp and press a palm to her stomach.
“She’s strong,” I say, voice rough.
Samantha startles, then laughs, breathless. “She’s a menace. I swear she’s practicing taekwondo in there.”
I step closer, unable to help myself. My hand hovers over her belly, waiting for permission. She doesn’t pull away. So I press my palm flat against the curve, and…
Thump.
The baby kicks again, right under my palm. Like she’s saying hello. Or maybe staking her claim.
I forget to breathe for a second.
Samantha’s eyes find mine, dark and knowing. “You feel that?”
"I feel her," I say, my voice rough. A daughter. I’m going to have a daughter. I should be scared out of my mind, but the thought just settles in, heavy and certain.
She looks at me for a long second, then goes back to her baking. I catch the way her mouth tightens, like she’s biting back something she wants to say. Probably a lot of things.
I deserve every one of them.
Dinner is quiet. Samantha picks at her food, her appetite diminished by the baby pressing against her ribs. I made her favorite. Some kind of pasta with garlic, lemon, and herbs, but she only manages a few bites before pushing the plate away.
"You need to eat," I say, sharper than I mean to.
She glares at me. “I’m trying. It feels like she’s sitting on my stomach.”
I let out a breath and try to dial it back. "Just eat what you can. But you’re not skipping meals."
She rolls her eyes at me, but picks up her fork anyway. I watch her take another bite, notice the way she swallows, the way her tongue flicks out to catch a bit of sauce at the corner of her mouth.
Fuck.
I shift in my seat, my cock already half-hard just from watching her eat. Pregnancy has made her lush. Her lips are fuller, her skin glowing, her body ripe with life. Mine. Ours.
I want to sink to my knees in front of her. Want to press my face between her thighs and taste how sweet she must be now, heavy with child, dripping with need. Want to hear her moan my name the way she used to, before I ruined everything.
Instead, I clear the plates and send her to bed.
The fireplace wasn’t here before.
I added it the night I moved in. Just a bit of magic, nothing fancy. Samantha deserves warmth. She deserves something good. The look on her face when she saw it, like she couldn’t believe it was real, made it worth the effort.
