“We are not doing that again,” I say vehemently. “Not once.”
Simone's expression softens. “Az… Even if I agreed, I don't think it's avoidable. Not unless you want us to be celibate.”
Leander stirs on my chest, makes a small sound, and settles back down without waking. I put my palm flat against his back, my hand nearly the size of him.
“Not if I'm not fertile anymore,” I say simply.
She tips her head back, a bright laugh escaping her. “One difficult birth and you're queuing up for a vasectomy?”
“I'm inquiring,” I say with great dignity, “whether it is even possible for an archdemon to have one. Forneus is looking into it.”
Simone blinks at me. Then bursts into laughter, pressing her hand over her mouth to avoid waking the baby.
“Oh mon Dieu,” she gasps, “you actually sent Forneus toresearch this?”
“I have many responsibilities. I delegate.”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, shaking her head. “Az. What happened with Leander, the cord, the placenta… that can happen in any pregnancy. It's not because of what I am, or what you are, or any of that. It justhappens.”
“I know that,” I say. “I still didn't enjoy it.”
“You think I enjoyed it?” she asks, deadpan.
“No.” My voice drops. “Which is precisely why?—”
“Which is precisely why nothing,” she interrupts, her tone gentler now but no less firm. She reaches out and covers my hand where it rests on Leander's back. “We made it through Az. We figured it out. You gave me your energy when I was fading, and if it comes to that, you'll do it again.”
I look at her hand on mine, trying to clear my head of the image that's burned there: Simone's blood on white linen.
“I want more,” she says when I don't answer.
I look up, meeting her gaze.
“I want more babies. I want to watch you figure out how to be someone's father when you're paying attention. I want Leander to have siblings.” She glances at our sleeping son, and her expression goes soft. “I wantmore.”
Leander chooses this moment to open his eyes. He blinks at me and then turns his head toward his mother. A small sound leaves his mouth, somewhere between a complaint and a demand.
“Good morning to you too,” Simone tells him, already reaching for him.
I transfer the baby carefully, watching the way she adjusts him against her chest like she's been doing it for years. Not four days.
She presses her lips to his forehead, murmuring softly in French.
There's a tightness in my chest I'm becoming accustomed to. It shows no signs of resolving.
“So,” Simone says, glancing up at me with a trace of that wicked humor she usually reserves for when she's beaten me at cards. “Should we tell Forneus to call off his research?”
I look at her. At our son.
“I'll send him to Paris for pastries instead.”
Simone's smile is slow and so beautiful, and maybe I don't deserve it, but I intend to spend all of eternity earning it.
“Good,” she says. Then she looks back down at Leander. “Voilà,” she tells him softly. “Ton papa commence à comprendre.”
Your daddy is beginning to understand.
That night,after Leander is finally persuaded that sleeping in the bassinet beside our bed is acceptable, Simone lies with her head on my chest in the dark.
