“I’m fine,” she says, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Please don’t worry so. Why don’t you and Thorne go find me and Delia some nice tea and snacks?”
“You’re sending me for tea when you’re unwell?” he protests, scandalized.
“I think she’s sending you for tea so she can talk to me without you hovering,” I offer, deadpan.
Jules snorts. “Exactly.”
Thorne huffs beside me, but there’s amusement in it.
“We are not hovering,” Alaric mutters.
“You’re hovering,” I say. “Both of you. Go. We’ll be here when you get back. Preferably with cookies.”
Alaric still looks torn.
Jules tilts her head, softening her voice.
“Please, Alaric. I want you to go. Get out. Touch grass. Or, you know. Yell at some clouds.”
His shoulders drop a fraction. That’s all it takes.
He leans down, kisses her forehead like she’s made of spun glass, then straightens and nods once to Thorne.
“Tea,” he mutters. “And snacks. For my lady and her guest.”
“My friend,” Jules corrects, squeezing my hand. “Go, Alaric.”
The two Demon Lords stalk off, Thorne throwing me one last smoldering look that says call if you so much as sneeze, before the door closes behind them.
The moment it does, Jules sags against her pillows and groans.
“You have no idea how much his hovering is getting on my nerves,” she says.
I laugh, moving closer to the bed.
“I think I can imagine. I’ve seen plenty of overbearing husbands. Comes with the job.”
“Oh, right—you were a, uh, what’s it—an EMT, yeah?”
“EMT, yeah. And I trained as a birthing doula for a while too. Lots of sweaty men fainting in delivery rooms.” I grin. “Five stars. Would mock again.”
Jules barks out a laugh, then winces, hand going instinctively to the small swell of her belly.
“Okay,” I say, the professional part of me taking over. “You wanna tell me what you’ve been feeling?”
She nods, serious now. “Dizzy spells. Mostly after I eat. My heart races sometimes for no good reason. I’m more tired than usual—which, being pregnant, I expected, but this feels heavier. I get this pressure behind my eyes, too. Not quite a headache, but close.”
I accept the piece of parchment and the quill she offers, perching on the edge of the bed.
The paper is thick and strangely warm, the ink glimmering faintly like molten silver as I jot notes.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Dizziness, post-meal fatigue, heart racing, pre-headache pressure…”
I set the parchment aside and move closer.
“May I?” I ask, reaching for her wrist.
“Please,” she says, offering it willingly.
