Tonight, we'd finally be together again. I could barely wait to feel his body over mine. The way he looked at me now, like he was already imagining what we'd do later, made heat pool low in my belly.
But for now, surrounded by friends and family celebrating Lore’s birthday, I was content to savor this perfect moment.
“Your pretty little bride is feeling quite well,” I said. “So well that I believe she needs some adoration.”
His eyes heated. “I believe I can oblige.”
“Canor will?”
Leaning close, he cupped my neck with his palm and kissed me harder before easing back.Oh, I will. All night long.
Perfect.
That grin. He’d barely stopped smiling for the past year.
The curse was gone. Prager was dead. Our lovely daughter was ruling the kingdom already—in her sweet little baby mind.
Watching Lore with Levia made me fall in love with him all over again. He sang to her in that deep voice, told her stories about dragons, and melted completely whenever she smiled.
Farris strutted by wearing a spiked gold circlet that tilted off his ears. Brys had also dressed him in a dashing black cape with silver embroidery. Children followed him like he was a furry royal.
My brother leaned against a pillar nearby with Tempest standing beside him. She shot me a grin and patted her distended belly. Their first would be born within two months, and I couldn't wait to hold my niece or nephew.
Vexxion's eyes remained locked on Levia like an overprotective dragon. Any time someone came near her, even just to peek at her tiny face, he stiffened.
“Vexxion, what now?” I asked as he approached with determined strides.
“The baby requires attention.” He reached for Levia with surprising gentleness despite his gruff tone.
“How do you know this? I can't tell.”
He gave me a stiff nod. “Magic.”
Tempest rolled her eyes. “He's been inventing reasons to hold her all evening. Yesterday he insisted she needed magical temperature regulation.”
My laugh rang out.
“Magic? Sure,” I called after him as he strode across the ballroom, Tempest's laughter trilling out.
I laughed and stood. “Our daughter is ruling more than this kingdom.”
Lore smirked. “She’s four months old and already owns her uncle’s soul.”
The music changed, and a faster melody coasted through the room. Dancers twirled into motion, the women's gowns sweepingthe floor, the men holding them dressed in fancy tunics and pants. Chandeliers cast dancing light across mirrored walls while the orchestra played a lively melody, strings and flutes weaving together.
The door on one wall opened, and Lord Briscalar swept in, leading a train of servants behind him. At the front of the line, a cake nearly as tall as me wobbled, cradled on a floating magical platform. Frosting spiraled upward in perfect layers, and candied flowers bloomed in neat rings across the top and sides.
“Chef Dulvade,” Lord Briscalar declared, waving his arm like a herald toward the other man. “Place it in the center of the ballroom, if you please.”
The chef sighed, muttering something I probably shouldn't hear. But he obeyed, guiding the cake to the “correct” place. When his eyes met mine, I grinned, and he did, too.
Lord Briscalar didn’t miss it. “What are the two of you snickering about?”
We pinched our lips together.
“My queen,” he said gravely. “Please remember decorum.”
“I don't believe I could forget,” I said in my most demure voice.
