Page 18

VAEL

I don't sleep much that night. Trinity's warm body curls against mine, her soft breathing a steady rhythm that should lull me to rest. After spending the afternoon with her, I had to carry her to bed and I couldn't bring myself to leave.

Instead, I find myself watching her, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her eyelashes against her skin.

She's carrying my children—twins—and the thought sends a primal satisfaction surging through me. I never expected to feel this way about anyone, least of all a human woman who came to me through such circumstances.

But there's something about Trinity that gets under my skin. The way she stood in my study today, demanding what she needed without apology. The fierce independence that burns behind those green eyes even as she softens in my arms.

My hand drifts to her stomach, still flat beneath her nightdress. Somewhere in there, two new lives are forming—my legacy taking shape within her body. She stirs slightly at my touch, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again.

"What am I going to do with you?" I whisper, too softly to wake her.

Because that's the question that keeps me awake. Our arrangement seemed so simple at first—she'd bear my heir, I'd give her freedom. But nothing feels simple anymore. Not when I find myself inventing reasons to be near her, not when I catch myself wondering what it would be like if she stayed.

By her fourth month, Trinity's body begins to change more noticeably.

The gentle swell of her belly makes something protective and possessive roar to life inside me.

We're in the garden when I first notice her resting her hand there, a subconscious gesture as she examines one of the metallic blooms.

"They're active today," she says without looking up, somehow sensing my approach despite my silent footfalls.

"They can move already?" I ask, closing the distance between us. Without thinking, I place my hand beside hers.

Trinity tenses for a moment—she still does that sometimes, still guards herself—but then relaxes. "Not exactly movement. More like..." She pauses, searching for words. "Like thaliverns. A fluttering sensation."

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.

Trinity looks away first, her hands resuming their rhythmic movement over her belly. "I might go to the city," she says finally. "Find work. Make a life for myself."

The words stab at me. A life for herself—without me, without our children. Just as we agreed.

I fucking hate it.

"You'd be good at whatever you chose to do," I say instead of what I really want to say, which is stay with me .

She glances up, surprise flickering across her face. "You think so?"

"I know so. You're intelligent, resourceful. Stubborn as a zarryn," I add with a half-smile. "You'd succeed at anything."

Something complicated passes over her features—gratitude, sadness, and something else I can't name.

"Thank you," she says softly.

I want to cross the space between us, gather her into my arms, tell her she doesn't have to go anywhere. But I made her a promise. Freedom. And if there's one thing I've learned about Trinity, it's that her freedom is precious to her—perhaps because she's had so little of it.

So I remain in my chair, watching her in the firelight, feeling the distance between us like a physical wound.

By her eighth month, Trinity moves with a waddle that she'd smack me for describing as such. Her belly protrudes dramatically, straining against even the loosest dresses. She tires easily but refuses to admit it, stubbornly pushing herself until I or Jackie intervene.

"I can make it up the stairs by myself," she insists one afternoon, even as she pauses on the second step, one hand braced against her lower back. There's only two more to get back inside and I don't want to see her struggle to make it.

"Of course you can," I agree, standing at the bottom of the staircase. "But why would you want to when I'm offering to carry you?"

She throws me a glare over her shoulder. "Because I'm not an invalid."

"No, you're just growing two entire people inside your body," I point out. "That might entitle you to some assistance."

Trinity huffs but doesn't immediately refuse when I step closer. In fact, I catch a flicker of relief in her eyes before she masks it.

"Fine," she relents. "But only because my feet are swollen."

I scoop her up as gently as possible, cradling her against my chest. She's heavier than before, but still feels small in my arms. Trinity loops her arms around my neck, her face close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose—a smattering that's appeared during her pregnancy.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she says as I carry her upstairs.

"Do what?"

"Take care of me like this. Our agreement only required that you provide for me during the pregnancy. Not that you..." She trails off, clearly uncomfortable.

"Not that I what?" I prompt, reaching the top of the stairs but not setting her down.

"Act like you care about me," she finishes quietly.

I stop walking, staring down at her. Does she really think I'm just acting? That everything between us is still just about our arrangement?

"Trinity," I begin, but she shakes her head.

"It's fine. I understand. You want to ensure the babies are healthy. I'm just the means to that end."

The words hit like a physical blow. Is that what she thinks? That I only care about her because of the children she carries?

"That's not—" I start, but she squirms in my arms.

"You can put me down now."

I set her on her feet reluctantly, my hands lingering around her waist to ensure she's steady.

"Thanks for the help," she says, already moving away, retreating emotionally as much as physically.

I watch her go, frustration building in my chest. How can she still not see what's happening between us? Or is she deliberately choosing not to—protecting herself by maintaining the emotional distance of our original arrangement?

Perhaps, I realize with a sinking feeling, she really does intend to leave once the babies are born. Perhaps all my hopes that something more might grow between us have been one-sided fantasies.

The thought leaves me cold, even as the more practical part of my brain reminds me that this was always the plan. She would give me heirs, I would give her freedom. That was our deal. Nothing more.

But standing in the hallway, watching her disappear into her room, I know with bone-deep certainty that I want more. Much more.

The question is, does Trinity?