Page 37 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
Unbidden, tears prick at my eyes. They deserve better than a life of suspicion and control. Deserve to be loved for themselves, not for their power or their bloodline. What if Arvoren sees them as just another piece in his game of politics and power? What if—
He stirs, his arms tightening around me.
"Calliope?" His voice is rough with sleep and worry. "Are you hurt? The magic you used—"
"I'm alright." I press my face into his chest, hiding the warring emotions I know must show on my face. "Just tired."
He makes a sound deep in his throat, almost a growl. "You shouldn't have tried to fight. Should have let me—"
"Let you what? Die protecting me?" The words come out sharper than intended. "I'm not helpless, Arvoren. Not anymore."
Arvoren’s hand comes up to cup my cheek, turning my face toward his. There's something in his eyes I can't quite read—fear? Hope?
"I know you're not helpless. I know you're stronger than I ever imagined. But I can't—" He breaks off. "I can't lose you again. Not to Ulric, not to anything."
The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. I want to tell him everything. Want to take his hand and press it to my stomach, to share this miracle growing within me. Want to believe that he could love us both without needing to control us.
Instead, I lean up and brush my lips against his jaw, tasting smoke and winter wind on his skin.
"Sleep," I whisper. "We're both safe for now."
He subsides reluctantly, but his arms stay locked around me, as if afraid I'll disappear the moment he lets go. I listen as his breathing evens out again, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
Outside our shelter, the storm rages on. But here, wrapped in dragon-fire warmth with our child's magic pulsing between us, I let myself imagine a future where trust comes as easily as breathing. Where love doesn't mean possession. Where we can build something new from the ashes of what we were.
It's a beautiful dream.
Chapter 18 - Arvoren
Ice claims everything up here. The path—if it can be called that—winds between sheer walls of black rock, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. Each step must be placed with careful precision; one wrong move means a fall into the endless white below. Wind howls through the pass like a living thing, driving snow and ice sideways with enough force to draw blood.
Calliope stumbles again, catching herself against the cliff face. Her breathing comes in sharp gasps that crystallize instantly in the bitter air. Through our bond, I feel her exhaustion like a physical weight, though she tries to hide it. Always trying to hide her weakness from me, even now.
We’ve been moving for days. She refuses to stop, and I can hardly blame her, though I try to fight it. She knows what is at stake.
"We should rest," I say anyway, touching her arm. Steam rises where my heated skin meets her frozen sleeve. "There's an overhang ahead—"
"I can keep going." My wife’s voice is rough, determined. But I feel her trembling beneath my hand, see the way she sways slightly with each gust of wind.
The urge to simply pick her up, to carry her to safety whether she likes it or not, burns in my blood. But I remember too well how that ended last time—my need to protect becoming possession, driving her away. Still, when she takes another step and her knee buckles…
I catch her before she can fall, pulling her against my chest. "Enough."
She starts to protest, but I cut her off: "You can barely stand. Let me help you. Please."
That last word seems to surprise her. She looks up at me, snowflakes caught in her dark lashes, and for a moment I see a flash of the trust we once shared. Before I ruined everything with chains and guards and my desperate need to keep her close.
"Just until the next bend," she finally concedes. "I don't want to slow us down."
I want to tell her that nothing matters except getting her somewhere safe. That my kingdom could burn if it meant protecting her. But the words stick in my throat, tangled with all my fears of losing her again. Instead, I sweep her into my arms as gently as I can, cradling her against my chest.
Calliope is too light, I realize with a fresh surge of fury. Whatever happened in that cursed fortress has left her thinner, more fragile. Something has changed in her magic, in her very essence, though I can't quite grasp what.
Once, when I was a child, my mother was bed-bound for a month after receiving news that her own mother from the human territories—my grandmother, who I never met—had died. She refused to see anyone but her husband and children, retreating from courtly duties, sleeping for hours each day, weak as a fawn. I recall my father feeding her soup late one evening, hands so gentle on her thin, delicate skin, stroking her hair when she was done.
Sometimes, when you’re very, very sad, it can make you unwell, my dearheart, and it can be hard to get better again,she told me when I asked. She must have seen my face fall, because she said:but when people love you very much, and they care for you, you’ll always be alright in the end.
I wonder whether I broke some part of her, of Calliope. I wonder whether my enduring and fearsome love is the cure or the source of the sickness itself.