If we’re going to raise a family together, the most important thing is that she and our children remain protected at all times.
By Nevaeh’s seventh month, the Ziccardi name means something different in Dresden than it did under my father’s rule.
We’re still feared—that’s necessary for survival—but we’re also respected in a way my father never achieved.
People know that, while I’m ruthless with enemies, I’m fair with allies.
I come home late one evening after a long day in the city, my mind still buzzing with the details of an expansion into the dockyard territories. The house is quiet when I enter, just the soft hum of evening settling over everything.
Then I hear the faint sound of music drifting from the dance studio. The same one I’d remodeled for Nevaeh months ago so she had a space to dance in my home.
I follow it like a man drawn to a siren’s call, my footsteps silent on the hardwood floors.
The studio door is ajar, and through the gap, I see her.
Nevaeh glides across the floor in a loose dress that flows around her seven-month-pregnant belly. She’s dancing very, very carefully, every move gentle and precise.
But it’s still with that breathtaking fluidity that made me fall in love with her. She executes a small leap, landing softly, then spins into a slow pirouette. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy bun, her face serene with concentration.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My beautiful pregnant ballerina.
I lean against the doorframe, content to watch her for hours if she’ll let me. But she catches sight of me in the mirror and slowly stops dancing, her smile blooming like dawn.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asks, one hand instinctively falling to her belly.
“Not long enough.” I push off the doorframe and cross to her. “You’re beautiful when you dance.”
“I’ve been careful,” she promises quickly. “Just gentle movements. Nothing that could hurt the baby.”
“I know.” I take her into my arms, peering down affectionately at her. “I trust you to know your limits, Nevi. I just love watching you be yourself.”
She melts against me, her sweet scent surrounding me. Her belly presses against me, the fluttering kick of our baby strong and insistent.
“Someone’s active tonight,” I murmur, placing my hand where I felt the movement.
“She’s been like this all day,” Nevaeh says with a laugh.
“Still on she, are we?” I tease. We’ve forgone learning the sex of the baby ’til the birth, wanting to be surprised.
“Orhe. But I have a feeling it’s a girl.” Her eyes sparkle up at me. “Are you ready for a daughter who’ll wrap you around her little finger?”
“I’ve been wrapped around her mother’s finger for months,” I point out. “I’m prepared.”
Nevaeh doesn’t deny it, simply wrinkling her nose up at me as another smile tugs at her lips. We both know it’s true; I give her any and everything.
“Come on,” I say, scooping her up into my arms despite her protest. “You need to eat, and I’m starving.”
“Caelian, I can walk?—”
“I know. But I enjoy carrying you.” I head for the door, cradling her against my chest. “Besides, I have a surprise.There’s a full moon tonight. I thought we could have dinner on the terrace. Ms. P has already arranged everything.”
She nestles against me, her head finding that perfect spot against my shoulder. “That sounds perfect.”
I carry her through the house, past rooms filled with life instead of shadows, toward the terrace where Ms. Poitier has already set up our dinner. The full moon hangs heavy and bright over the faraway city and the forest that surrounds our home, bathing everything in silver light.
As I set Nevaeh down in her chair and watch her smile up at me with love and trust and happiness, I think about how this is better than any dream.
This is more than I ever thought I’d have after a lifetime of pain and suffering.
