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I try to imagine it, what it must feel like to have life growing within you. "Does it hurt?"
Her laugh surprises me—bright and genuine. "No. It's strange, but not painful."
She covers my hand with hers, pressing it more firmly against her abdomen. The gesture feels startlingly intimate, more so than the physical release we've shared. This is Trinity letting me in, if only for a moment.
"Thank you," I say, unable to articulate everything I'm feeling.
Her eyes flick up to mine, wary again. "For what?"
"For sharing this with me." I gesture to her stomach. "You didn't have to."
Something flickers across her face—uncertainty, perhaps. "I suppose I didn't."
She steps back then, putting distance between us, and I let her go. There's still so much unsaid between us, so many boundaries drawn in invisible ink. I want to erase them all, but I know Trinity needs them. And if this already fragile thing between us is to survive, I need to respect that.
Even if it's killing me.
"You're hovering again,"Trinity points out one evening in her sixth month. She's curled in a chair by the fire, a book abandoned in her lap, her stomach now a pronounced dome beneath her dress.
"I'm not hovering. I'm strategically positioned," I counter, though I know she's right. I've barely left her side all day.
"You had Jackie bring me three blankets."
"You shivered."
"Because a cloud passed overhead and the room was momentarily cooler. I didn't need three blankets."
I drop into the chair opposite hers, running a hand through my hair. "Fine. I'm hovering."
Trinity's expression softens slightly. "Vael, I'm pregnant, not made of glass. Women have been doing this since the beginning of time."
"Not with my children," I mutter, and immediately regret the possessiveness in my tone.
But instead of bristling, Trinity just shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "No, I suppose not."
We sit in companionable silence for a while, the fire crackling between us. I watch her face in the flickering light, the way the flames cast gold across her features. She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
"What will you do?" I ask suddenly. "After."
Trinity's hands still where they've been absently stroking her belly. "After?"
"When you're free. Where will you go?"
The question has haunted me for months now, growing more insistent as her body swells with our children. Soon she'll give birth, recover, and then—according to our deal—she'll be free to leave.
The thought makes me want to burn something down.
Trinity stares into the fire, avoiding my gaze. "I haven't really thought about it."
It's a lie. I can tell by the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. She's thought about it plenty.
"You're a terrible fucking liar," I call her on it, gentle but firm. "You're the most forward-thinking woman I've ever met. You've got plans."
She meets my eyes then, a challenge in her gaze. "Why do you care where I go?"
It's a fair question. According to our arrangement, I shouldn't care. Once she's given me my heirs and recovered, her life is her own again. That was the deal.
"I care," I admit, unable to say more. Unable to tell her that the thought of her walking out of my life makes me feel like someone's ripped a hole in my chest.