Page 174 of Given to the Black King

Iona woke and laughed so hard she needed water.

The heartbeat had been little more than a flutter then.

Now it is a person with knees, opinions, and a habit of driving one heel beneath Iona’s ribs during council.

I put my palm where the movement travels.

The child presses back.

I feel nothing through the bond from it. The healers insist that is normal. The bond joins mates, not offspring.

I continue to suspect the healers lack information.

“Do you think she knows me?” I ask.

Iona’s expression softens.

“We do not know she is a girl.”

“Vess knows.”

“Vess is betting.”

“She has not lost since the mare.”

“She bet against the bite.”

“She calls that a strategic investment.”

The child kicks again.

Iona takes my hand and moves it lower.

“There.”

A hard little shape presses beneath my fingers.

“Foot,” she says.

I hold it through her skin.

The shape disappears.

My chest aches with something larger and less clean than the old fang pain.

The bond carries it to Iona.

She looks at me.

“What?”

I do not have a word that does not sound weak or foolish.

So I use the plain one.

“Fear.”

Her hand covers mine.