The midwives bowed, offering a cloth of black velvet to wipe away the remnants of his birth—my blood, my sweat, the last pieces of me still clinging to his skin. Alvar dragged the fabric over Evander’s tiny body, then pressed the stained silk to his lips.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
A memory flashed—Luke’s nursery. The tiny socks I’d folded, the mobile of stars I’d hung, the way I’d packed it all away in a box when the midwife handed me silence instead of a crying baby. I never got to hold him either.
“Please,” I rasped, reaching out with trembling hands.“Let me hold—”
The King turned away, carrying him toward the door, my son’s dark eyes, so like his father’s, locked onto mine and for one heartbeat, his cries stilled.
I heard the cheering and joy on the other side before the room doors slammed shut.
My heart shattered all over again.
???
They bathed me with elixirs that smelled of crushed violets, their hands brisk, impersonal. The fluids stung where my skin had torn, sealing wounds but not the hollowness beneath. I lay there, limp as a discarded doll, while their magic knitted me back together.
A vessel. Empty. Used.
Lily was the only one who lingered. Her fingers, softer than the others, brushed my tangled hair from my forehead—a kindness or perhaps just another chore.
“The prince will need to be fed,” she murmured, her silver wings twitching.“He will be back soon.”
I lifted my head just enough to nod, not enough to hope. The door clicked shut behind her, and I was alone again with the silence and the aching weight of my own body.
The memory of Evander’s obsidian eyes, locked onto mine for that one fleeting second, flared behind my eyelids. It was a cruel comfort, but I clung to it anyway.
Somewhere beyond these walls, my son was crying, and the King was listening.
His squalls grew louder, closer. I jerked upright, flinging the sheets aside just as the doors flew open. There stood the King, Evander cradled like a stolen prize in the crook of his arm. My son’s face was flushed red, his tiny fists flailing. My lips tightened in anger at his hunger.
“Feed him,” the King commanded, his gaze flicking to the milk soaking through my nightdress.
“You should have brought him sooner,” I said, trying not to snarl at him, but I held out my arms instead with trembling fingers.
For a heartbeat, the King hesitated. Then, with reluctance in every movement, he passed Evander to me. My son immediately fisted my hair, yanking hard enough to make my eyes water. I laughed, pressing a kiss to his hot, furious cheek.
“I’m sorry, my darling,” I whispered.“Blame your dull-witted father.”
The King’s growl slithered through the room. The thorned collar around my throat tightened, but I didn’t flinch.
I settled onto the bed, loosening my laces. Evander latched on with a vengeance, his tiny claws kneading my breast. The pain was sharp, bright like a brand. Mine.
As he fed, I traced his features in marvel at his beauty. His lips were full, like mine, not the King’s cruel slash. His lashes were dark as spilt ink. When his free hand splayed against my skin, I unfurled his tiny fingers and slid my own between them. My heart swelled with love when he squeezed tight. For the first time since being brought to Duskend, I felt like a mother, not a prisoner.
I didn't even notice the King skulking away.
???
The King returned at dusk, his shadow swallowing the room whole.
“Enough,” he said, eyeing the way Evander curled against my bare chest, his tiny mouth still latched to my nipple.“He’s fed. Give him to me.”
I braced for the fight, but before I could even speak, Evander decided for me.
His claws that were as sharp as thorns around my neck dug into my breast as the King tried to pry him away. A whimper escaped me, but Evander only hissed, his black eyes glaring at his father.
“Release her,” the King commanded coldly.
