Page 33 of Bred By The King

“I love you,” he whispers with every thrust. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll do better. I love you.”

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper. I moan, “You better.”

He laughs between breathy grunts, and that makes his cock deliciously jump inside me.

My king picks up his pace, hips slamming against mine. I dig my nails into his back and he groans against my lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt.

We come together, my pussy clenching around him, his cock pulsing deep inside me. He floods me, his cum hot and thick, and I take it all. Every fucking drop.

And later, he holds me, orders me soup, and feeds it to me while he tells me about the patrol, the villages, our people, and the peace holding strong.

And when we fall asleep, tangled together, I know we can survive anything. Arguments, distance, fear, pregnancy hormones… Because we love each other. Because we choose each other. Every day.

Twenty Seven

EPILOGUE

SOREN

The baby comes three weeks early.

One minute, Layla is laughing at something Monique said, her hand on her belly, looking radiant. The next moment, her eyes go wide, and she gasps.

“Soren,” she says, her voice strangely calm. “I think my water just broke.”

Chaos.

Monique screams. Servants run. I lift Layla in my arms, she’s shaking, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and carry her to the birthing chamber we’ve prepared.

Hilda is there within minutes, barking orders, her hands efficient and steady. “The baby is coming fast, Your Majesty. We need to get her ready.”

“I’m not leaving,” I say, my voice leaving no room for argument.

“Your Majesty, it’s not customary…”

“I. Am. Not. Leaving.”

Hilda looks at me, sees something in my face, and nods. “Fine. But don’t get in my way.”

I don’t. I hold Layla’s hand. I wipe her forehead. I tell her she’s beautiful and strong and that I love her, over and over, until the words lose meaning and become pure prayer.

The labor is hard. Layla is fierce, she doesn’t scream, she roars, her warrior spirit shining through every contraction. She squeezes my hand so hard I think she might break bones. I don’t care. Let her break them. Let her take everything I have.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “So fucking good. I’m so proud of you.”

“You did this to me,” she pants, her eyes flashing with something between love and murder. “You and your giant Viking sperm.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“I love you too, you big bastard. Now help me push.”

I do. I hold her up, support her back, count with her, breathe with her. I’m useless and essential all at once.

And then, after what feels like a lifetime and a heartbeat, I hear it.

A cry.