She tops, shielding her eyes with a hand. “You mean we keep the secrets? Like we have been?”
I shake my head, stepping closer. “What if we build something?” My eyes dart to the stones, then back to her, thoughts forming faster now. “A Wildblood Cultural Institute.”
She stands back on her heels, hands coming to her hips. “You mean like a museum?”
“An archive. Resonance research. Living scholarship.”
Mags shakes her head, cheeks glowing. “I don’t think the world’s ready for that yet.”
“Probably not,” I say, walking the outcropping boundary. “But when it is, so will we.”
A smile cracks her face. “A history,” she whispers, delight threading the words. “Like we belong here. Like we’re a part of this place. Not just a secret.”
“Not just rebellion. Preservation. For us and for the future.”
She laughs now, the sound light and dancing across the breeze. Her eyes drop to my stomach. “The future you and Ash are working on together.”
My breath hitches in my throat. “What do you mean?”
She presses her hand to her mouth. Delight dancing in her eyes. Saying nothing. Then, she skips among the glyphs. Far too agile for her age.
I laugh to myself, suspicion confirmed. The cane she sometimes uses is all for show.
Later, in the cool of the evening breeze, sitting in Ash’s arms, leaned against the old barn, I tell him about my day.
A ring of ranch keys rests between us—for every gate, every fence line. Grandpa pressed them into Ash’s hand that afternoon without a word.
His way of saying we’re one family now.
“I don’t feel any different,” I say, my hand resting over my stomach. His covers it instantly. “But she said it.”
Ash’s smile breaks wide and boyish, something unguarded flashing across his face. It steals my breath more than anything else.
I feel it thrumming through him—not just desire. Wonder. Awe.
Hope, too.
“Don’t get too excited,” I warn softly. “I’m not sure.”
He leans in, brushing his mouth over mine, slow and careful. Almost reverent.
“Then we don’t rush it,” he murmurs against my lips. “We let it unfold.”
Heat pools low, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not urgent. Steady.
His palm remains over my stomach, thumb stroking absentmindedly, as if already memorizing something that may or may not exist.
“You’d make the fiercest little Wildblood,” he says, voice low. “Or maybe a stubborn one. Like your mother.”
I huff a laugh, emotion catching unexpectedly in my throat.
“What if she’s wrong?” I whisper.
He rests his forehead against mine. “Then we try again. And again. Not because we need to prove anything. Because we want to.”
“Yes,” I beam at him.
He scoops me into his arms, easy strength lifting us both.
