I still slightly.
“I do not care what kind of bond it is,” he continues. “I do not care what it would mean politically or magically. He cannot have that connection to you.”
I shift over him, settling against him, my hands resting against his chest. “You are the only man I want.”
Something in him eases at that. “I know,” he says.
He exhales, then adds, “His target is likely Sevrin. And Rathmor.”
“Why?”
“I do not know,” he admits. “Before, I would not have cared.”
“But now.”
“Now,” he says, “it matters. Safety. The children. Succession.”
I draw in a slow breath.
“You are the rightful heir,” I say. “And your brother is tied to Yvara, who will destroy everything she touches. If we ignore this, we risk leaving our children in the hands of both of them.”
His hand moves slowly along my side, grounding, thoughtful.
“Our children are not ordinary,” I continue. “If one of them is born a feeder… this becomes unavoidable.”
He nods slightly.
“Make no mistake, Asharin. Sevrin will pay for what he has done. And that throne will not remain his. I have not spoken about it because I am focused on keeping you and the children safe. But everything he has done to you, he will pay back tenfold, I promise you.”
“I know, my love,” I say quietly, kissing the top of his head. “We will make our vengeance plans after the children arrive.”
He leans forward, pressing a slow kiss against my stomach before resting his forehead there.
“They are moving a lot,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“I missed so much.”
I run my fingers through his hair. “You did not miss what matters. And they will not remember.”
He lets out a quiet breath. “I wonder what the other twin is.”
“Me too,” I say. “Aunt Jularin never said. And since the children are intunars, I wonder if they sensed something when sheprobed them. Something that made them hide the other twin’s identity. And their ability.”
A thought passes between us.
“I do not think I trust anyone here,” I add quietly. “Not beyond Uralish. And Syle.”
His hand shifts against me, warmer now, firmer, his attention lowering as his mouth traces a slow path along my stomach, pausing where the curve has begun to change, where something new and undeniable lives beneath my skin.
“Maybe our children are already protecting themselves,” he murmurs, his voice roughened, closer now, less distant.
“Maybe,” I answer, though the word dissolves as his mouth moves again, lower this time, the sensation pulling through me in a steady, tightening line that makes it difficult to hold onto anything else.
He does not rush. There is nothing careless in the way he touches me, nothing impatient, only intention, each movement chosen, drawn out just enough that I feel every shift of his hands, every change in pressure, every place where his attention lingers longer than it needs to.
My fingers slip into his hair, tightening without thought as my breath loses its rhythm, my body answering him before I can gather myself back into anything resembling control.
