Page 17

"Very, my little sunshine," Harmony says, smoothing a hand over those wild curls.
My chest tightens as I watch them—a family. A human woman, a xaphan man, and their...
I look closer at the girl. No wings. But those eyes—unmistakably xaphan. Half-human, half-xaphan.
Just like the child growing inside me.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. My hand returns to my stomach, this time consciously.
"Are you okay?" Harmony asks, noticing my expression.
Words bubble up from somewhere deep inside me, words I never thought I'd say aloud to anyone.
"The father is xaphan," I blurt out, my voice barely above a whisper. "My baby's father is xaphan."
Understanding dawns on Harmony's face like the slow break of daylight. Her eyes widen slightly, then soften at the edges. She glances at Adellum, something unspoken passing between them before returning her attention to me.
"I see," she says quietly.
The xaphan's silver gaze flicks to my belly, then back to my face with unsettling intensity. I can practically feel him calculating, assessing. My fingers twitch toward my dagger again.
"Brooke, sweetheart." Harmony kneels before her daughter. "Why don't you and Papa go wait for me at home? I need to talk with my friend for a bit."
"Is she sick?" Brooke asks, those uncanny silver eyes fixing on me. "I can help! I'm learning healing from Ansel."
"Not today, little spark." Adellum's voice is surprisingly gentle as he extends his hand to his daughter. "Your mother needs some privacy."
The girl pouts momentarily before placing her tiny hand in her father's. "Okay. But I want to help next time."
"We'll see," Harmony agrees, kissing the top of her head.
I watch, transfixed, as the massive winged xaphan leads the little girl away. His wings shift slightly to shield her as they pass through the busy kitchen, a protective gesture that makes something twist painfully in my chest.
When they're gone, Harmony returns to her stool, her expression carefully neutral. "Is that why you're traveling alone? Because of the father?"
I stare into my cooling tea, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow. "He doesn't know."
"And you don't want him to."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No."
She doesn't press immediately, giving me space to collect myself. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken understanding.
"The father..." she finally ventures. "Is he...?"
"A smug, arrogant, self-satisfied bastard?" I laugh without humor. "Yes."
"That wasn't what I was going to ask."
I look up, meeting her steady gaze. "What then?"
"Dangerous," she says simply.
The word hangs in the air between us. Is Araton dangerous? My mind floods with images of him—the golden gleam of his eyes when he's aroused, the casual strength in his hands, the calculating intelligence behind every charming smile. The way he looks at me sometimes, like he can see straight through to the parts of myself I try hardest to hide.
"He wouldn't hurt me," I say, surprising myself with how certain I sound. "Not physically, anyway."
"But you're still running."