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The children had gone home, and I’d been the only one there—which was unusual these days—and I was left with some rare extra energy after the lessons. The things the children painted often left me in tears, though I was always careful to hide it. But despite the upswell of complicated emotions this daily work had sparked in me, it had proved gratifying in a way I’d never anticipated. In a way all of my considerable magic had never made me feel.

And the only thing to do with those feelings was to paint them out.

The nightmare had left me off-balance the entire day, lingering in my mind like some sort of bruise. I’d been back Under the Mountain, once more facing my second trial, those jagged spikes descending to impale me if I did not pick the correct lever in time. I’d somehow become illiterate again, unable to decipher the markings on the wall, forced to pick my salvation or doom at random. Rhys had saved me then—but in the dream, he hadn’t been there.

Only Amarantha had been present, the King of Hybern a shadow behind her, and somehow no one knew where I was, that I’d been dragged back here because she’d learned I’d somehow cheated my way out the first time, and I’d never escape, never escape, never escape—

That was the last thought I’d had before forcing myself awake—damp with sweat, my heart thundering in my chest. Rhys had stirred, tucking me into his side, his wing sweeping over us both, and although I’d cuddled into his warmth and strength, true sleep hadn’t found me again.

So I’d waited until the children had left the studio for the day before hauling over a blank canvas and my palette. I made myself a steaming-hot cup of peppermint and licorice root tea, and picked up my brush.

I’d been painting out that nightmare for nearly two hours, my back to the door, when Rhys entered. He remained utterly silent. It wasn’t the contented silence he sometimes fell into while he observed me painting. It was pure, shocked silence.

I’d twisted to look at him just in time to see him crash to his knees.

And then he’d been weeping, and laughing, and all I could make out in his ecstatic babbling was one word: baby. I’d leaped off the stool. I was weeping too by the time I launched into his arms, knocking us both to the ground, and he’d put a hand to my stomach in wonder.

Something had altered in my scent since I’d bid him farewell that morning, perhaps even since I’d said farewell to the children. Life had taken root within me at last.

We’d lain together on the floor, our laughter and our tears mingling, and only when we’d calmed had I kissed him. Our clothes had vanished after that, and I’d ridden him on the floor of the studio, letting the light within me shine brightly enough to cast shadows through the room. He’d begun crying again as he watched me move, silent tears streaming through the star-kissed night pouring off him, and when I’d leaned in to lick them away, he’d climaxed so hard it sent me spiraling to my own peak.

And now, just as he had after that time in the studio, his fingers began tracing idle circles over my stomach, up to my breasts, already heavy and aching in a way that had nothing to do with the desire building between my legs. It had been one of the first signs, beyond the vomiting that lately had been nearly around-the-clock: my breasts swelled, and hurt.

Rhys circled one of my nipples, and it hardened beneath his touch. He watched it pebble through my shirt, like a cat watching a mouse.

“Rhys,” I said when my question remained unanswered. “Why did Cassian say you’ve been moody?”

He closed his mouth around my breast, teeth grazing me through my shirt. “No reason.”

“Liar.” I tugged on his hair, forcing his head up. “Tell me.”

He shook off my grip and nuzzled his face into the side of my neck, lowering his body just enough that he showed me precisely how this was going to end. I couldn’t stop my hips from rising to meet him. Another early sign: I’d been ravenously hungry. Not only for food.

There had been nights when I’d barely waited for Rhys to enter the bedroom before I’d ripped his clothes off, before I’d dropped to my knees and taken his cock deep in my mouth, or asked him to fuck me against the wall. There were entire days when I’d found myself needing him inside me so badly that I’d used my daemati gifts to ask him to meet me at the town house during lunch, since it was closer to the studio than our new home.

This lovely, perfect home that we’d built—with a nursery that, Cauldron willing, would be occupied sometime late this spring.

Rhys had matched my relentless hunger with his own. Sometimes we went slow, savoring every inch of each other, the embodiment of making love. Other times—usually—it was pure, rough fucking. Just this morning, I’d been so swarmed with need that we’d barely gotten through a private breakfast in our room before I climbed into his lap and rode him until we were both senseless with pleasure.

I’d asked Madja about it yesterday—whether it was . . . normal to want him this much.

Yes, she’d answered, eyes sparkling. Many expectant mothers do not talk about it, but it has to do with your body’s altering essence. I can’t tell you why that is, but it is normal. Enjoy every moment of it.

Rhys said against my neck, “I’ve been moody because I’m not getting any sleep.” He licked up the side of my throat, and his hand drifted into my pants. I didn’t stop it, not when his fingers found the slickness waiting for him. He let out a pleased growl. “See?”

I knew he was hedging, and I let it slide. I’d learned that Rhys would tell me what was bothering him when he was good and ready. Maybe Cassian had been misinterpreting it—maybe it had been directed toward my sister.

I knew that was unlikely.

But as Rhys slid his fingers inside me, setting a wickedly lazy rhythm, I let it drop. It had always been part of our friendship: to give each other the space to decide when we were ready to talk.

And then there was our final bargain, inked on us since we’d defeated Hybern . . . I kissed him deeply, tongue tangling with his. We wouldn’t spend a moment in this world without each other. I could only pray that our child would find such love one day.

Rhys brought me to the edge of climaxing, and then his hand and my clothes were gone. He unbuckled his pants with taunting slowness, watching my face as he pulled his considerable length free. He watched my face the entire time he slid into me in a single, mighty thrust, seemed to savor each of my moans and breathless pleas as he moved deep inside me.

As if he were memorizing it—all of it.

When we were both panting, Rhys’s face still buried in my neck, my fingers idly tangling in his sweat-damp shirt, I said, “It feels real now that the others know.”