Page 167 of Given to the Black King

No furniture. No fire.

Only the last light across the floorboards and the bond carrying a hope he has tried to hide from me for weeks.

I lean against the frame.

“The masons said you ordered this work before the southern delegation arrived.”

He does not turn.

“The windows were unsound.”

“No one uses this wing.”

“They may.”

“When?”

Silence.

I cross the room.

His shoulders are tight.

The Black King can face an army without a change in pulse. This frightens him.

I put my arms around his waist from behind.

His hands cover mine.

Through the bond, I show him what I want without giving it a face or pretending certainty.

A small bed near the fire. Sera arguing over blankets. Ghenn teaching someone to hold a wooden sword. Torgan on the floor with a child climbing one horn despite every law he tries to make against it.

Hope surges through the bond so sharply that his hands tighten over mine.

“Iona.”

“Not now,” I say. “Not because the country needs an heir. Not because the old blood expects one.”

He turns in my arms.

“Then why?”

“Because I want more of this.” I press my palm to his chest. “You. Me. A life that keeps growing.”

Fear moves through him.

So does joy.

The two are tangled too tightly to separate.

“You are mortal,” he says.

“I know.”

“Pregnancy is dangerous.”

“So is riding beneath your gate.”