Now, I sit in the armchair beside it, the fire crackling low, the wards humming in my veins. The apartment is silent except for the occasional creak of the floorboards, the soft inhale of Samantha’s breath from the bedroom.
I should probably get some sleep. I need to be sharp. But my brain won’t shut up.
The entities hunting my child aren’t just curiosities. They’re hungry. Demons want to twist her into something dark, a corruption of joy, a spreader of despair. Angels want to weaponize her, turn her into a tool for their endless wars. And then there are the others. The things that don’t fit into either category, the ancient, nameless beings that see a child of two worlds and lick their lips.
I’ll kill them all before I let them touch her.
The thought should steady me. Instead, it sits like a stone in my gut.
Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can protect her. Not forever. Not from everything.
I already failed Samantha once. Left her alone, scared, and pregnant. What if I screw it up again?
The fire pops, sending up a shower of sparks. I rub my face, the weight of centuries pressing down on my shoulders. I’ve lived lifetimes. I’ve seen empires rise and fall. I’ve delivered gifts, joy, and hope to millions.
But I’ve never been a father.
And I’ve never been so fucking afraid.
I don’t hear her approach.
One moment, I’m lost in the fire, the next, there’s a soft rustle of fabric, the scent of vanilla and something uniquely her. Samantha lowers herself beside me, her movements slow, awkward with the weight of her belly. She doesn’t speak at first. Just sits, her shoulder brushing mine, her warmth seeping into me like a balm.
Then, quietly: “You’re thinking too loud.”
I let out a breath. "Didn’t realize I was that obvious."
She hums, her fingers twisting in the hem of her nightgown. It’s thin, cotton, the kind that clings to her curves in a way that makes my mouth dry. The firelight plays over her skin, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the roundness of her belly.
“You left,” she says suddenly.
I flinch. “Samantha.”
“No.” She turns to face me, her dark eyes glinting. “You left. And it hurt. But I get it now. Or maybe I don’t get it, not really. But I understand why.”
My throat tightens. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything unsaid. Then her hand finds mine, her fingers sliding between my own. Her skin is soft, warm. Alive.
“I forgave you a long time ago,” she whispers. “I just didn’t know if I’d ever get to tell you.”
Something cracks open in my chest.
I turn to her, my free hand cupping her face, my thumb brushing over her cheekbone. She leans into the touch, her eyelashes fluttering closed.
“Samantha,” I rasp.
I don’t think. I just move.
My hands are on her, pulling her onto my lap, her legs straddling my thighs. She gasps, her belly pressing between us, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. My mouth crashes onto hers, desperate, starving. She tastes like mint and something sweeter, something hers, and I groan into the kiss, my hands sliding into her hair, gripping the strands like a lifeline.
She moans against my lips, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Nick…”
“I need you,” I growl, my voice raw. “Let me worship you.”
Her breath hitches. Then she nods.
