He wants this. A family. Me and children and a life built together.
And I want it too.
Two weeks blur together, and I find my routine.
The first-grade classroom at Nightfall Elementary smells like crayons, paste and the chaos of twenty-three six-year-olds who've just come in from recess. I'm covering for Mrs. Goodwood while she recovers from surgery, and by my third day, the kids have decided I belong to them.
"Ms. Sarah!" A tiny orc girl named Daisy tugs at my sleeve, her green skin flushed darker with distress. "Henry says I can't play princess because princesses don't have tusks."
I crouch down to her level, meeting her eyes. "Daisy, do you know what I think?"
She shakes her head, lower lip trembling.
"I think princesses can look like anything. Some have tusks. Some have horns. Some have wings." I tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear, careful of the small tusks just beginning to peek from her lower lip. "The only thing a princess needs is someone who believes she's royal. Do you believe it?"
Daisy considers this with the gravity only a six-year-old can muster. "I'm a very good princess."
"Then that settles it."
She beams and races back to the reading corner, where Henry—a human boy with a gap-toothed smile—is already rearranging the dress-up bin to make room for her.
I watch them play together, orc and human, princess and knight, and something settles in my chest. This is what Nightfall Cove could be. What it's becoming, one classroom at a time.
After school, I grade spelling tests at the clubhouse while Knox reviews invoices across the table. The domesticity of it still catches me off guard sometimes—morning coffee on the deck watching fog roll off the water, evening rides through the forests, nights tangled together in sheets that smell like us.
I help Lisa plan the annual toy run, coordinating donations and routes. I spend afternoons with Maria learning the clubhouse's routines and needs—who takes their coffee black, who has allergies, which brothers need reminding to eat. I build a life here, piece by piece, and each day the fear fades a little more.
The future opens up before me in a way it never has. I can see the shape of what we're building, Knox and I. Years stretchingahead, filled with sunrises and engine roar and the fierce devoted love that burns through our bond every time he looks at me.
This is home.
The nausea catches me off guard one morning.
I blame the coffee at first—Betty's new blend running a little strong—but the queasy feeling follows me through the day, settling into my stomach like a permanent resident. By evening, even the smell of Maria's famous pasta sends me rushing for the bathroom.
"You okay?" Knox's concern floods through the bond before I hear his footsteps.
"Fine." I splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection. "Just tired."
The exhaustion drags at my bones heavier than it should after eight hours of sleep. I chalk it up to adjustment—the bond still settling, my body still adapting to everything that's changed.
But when the nausea returns the next morning, and the morning after that, I start to wonder.
I stand in the bathroom with my hand pressed flat against my stomach, thinking about Knox watching me with Lily. Thinking about the longing I felt thrumming through the bond, the hope and fear tangled together in his chest. Thinking about the lifewe're building here, piece by piece, and all the pieces we haven't even imagined yet.
When was my last period?
I try to count backward and the days blur together—before the claiming bite, before Peter showed up, before everything changed. The math doesn't add up. Or maybe it does, in a way I'm not ready to face.
Through the bond, I feel Knox in the garage, his focus steady as he works on an engine—and then a flicker of concern as he senses my unease. I push reassurance back at him, not ready to share what I'm thinking until I know for sure. His presence settles, trusting me, but I feel him keeping part of his attention tuned my way.
I press my hand against my stomach and wonder what might be growing there. If anything is, it's too new to sense—just a possibility.
