Page 47 of His King Enslaved

Because she was his mother’s best. That’s how.

“Wraith,” he breathed, the barest whisper. He didn’t dare say her title louder and risk the lives of everyone in that room. No weapon was more deadly than the one wielded by a Pavarian Wraith with direct orders from the Archon.

“You cannot both survive this,” the assassin said, too low for anyone else to hear. “Your champion loves you too much. She cannot do what must be done. We go to war either way, but I can ensure the child lives.”

Could the Wraith be trusted? Did it matter? Pain gripped Ardor’s abdomen like a hot vise, and he gritted his teeth as his body threatened to tear itself apart. The egg sac had to come out. Jain was hunched between his legs, singularly focused on helping his flower open, but it did not yield to her insistent gloved fingers. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and her pupils were dilated. His Champion’s outward calm was a mask. She was panicking.

“Beloved,” she said, looking up. “I’m so sorry.”

“Do what you have to do,” he told her.

There was a commotion, and Ardor’s heart squeezed when Sindar’s voice rang through the hall. “I’m the king, damn it!”

Oh, no. No, no, no… “Don’t let him see me like this,” he begged Jain.

“Beloved, there is one more thing we can try. He’s your consort. Your bloom knows him. It may respond… Please, Beloved, let us try.”

Ardor’s laugh was part sob. Sindar could not open his bloom. No one could open it. His consort’s presence would only compound his failures. He was a failed flower and soon he’d be a failed father.

Before Ardor could say no, never, and take the secrets of his deformed body to his grave, Sindar stormed into the room.

“Get out!” Ardor yelled.

“He should leave,” Hara said sharply. “He’s not wanted! Get him out!”

But Sindar was already at Ardor’s side. “Stay out of this,” he told Hara, grabbing Ardor’s hand. To Ardor, he said, “Beloved, listen to me.”

“I can’t concentrate with you here!” Ardor snapped. “If you care about me at all, leave!”

“I don’t care if you hate me, or never talk to me again, I will be here for you. Look at me.”

Ardor tried and failed to hold back his panting. The pain threatened to blot out all else. He glared at his consort, seething. “I didn’t want you to see me like this!”

“All I see is the bravest man in the kingdom. I know you will do anything for our baby. She needs her birth-father. We’re getting through this.”

Ardor couldn’t hold back his panting any longer. The pain was too intense. “I—I can’t—“

“You can, Beloved, you can,” Sindar said. If there’d been any doubt in him, even the slightest tremor of his hand, Ardor would have been lost, but his consort was a rock. Sindar’s certainty was his anchor.

“Your Majesty,” Jain said quickly. “You are his consort, the bloom…”

“I understand,” Sindar said. “Beloved, I’m going to touch you.”

Ardor’s eyes widened. “No! Don’t!” He’d planned for the cut. He knew it had to happen. There was no reason for his consort to do this when surgery was inevitable. They were going to have to cut him open, regardless.

“I’m not letting her use that knife until we try everything,” Sindar said.

Jain gripped Ardor’s left hand. “Breathe, Beloved. I can’t lose you. We have to try.”

“Don’t look at it,” Ardor whispered, too blinded by pain and panic to be rational. “Please, please, don’t look.”

“I won’t look,” Sindar said, meeting his gaze. “My eyes are right here. You are so strong, sweet angels, I wish I was half as strong as you. You are going to hold our baby soon, and you are going to be such a wonderful father…” Sindar touched him, his bare finger firm against the bloom’s meager opening. Jain guided him, her gloved hand brushing against Ardor’s thigh as she positioned his consort’s fingers.

Sindar’s finger sank into him, and a wave of despair washed over Ardor. This was a nightmare. This was the ghastliest conceivable way Sindar could discover what his body looked like. Consorts were barred from the birthing chamber for a reason. Flower births were as quick as they were grotesque. Few humans could witness the opening of a Flower’s womb and stomach ever having sex with a bloom again. Royals depended on Flowers for their survival, and even they could not reconcile how alien and different a Flower’s anatomy was compared to their own.

Ardor nearly sobbed as the mangled petal responded, reaching out, curling around Sindar’s finger. His own body had never looked more alien to him. It was as though the bloom truly had a mind of its own. “Don’t look! Don’t!”

“I’m not looking, Beloved,” Sindar said, pressing his forehead to Ardor’s. “I can’t wait to meet our baby girl. What’s her name?”