Page 43 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

"Did you really think you could protect her?" His voice carries the mockery I've come to know too well. "That you could keep something so powerful contained? She was never meant to be yours, brother. Her child will reshape this world—but not as your heir."

"Please," Calliope whispers, one hand pressed to her stomach. Through our bond, I feel her pain, her terror—and beneath that, our child's magic pulsing. "Ulric, don't—"

The blade moves.

Blood blooms like roses on snow.

I wake with a snarl, halfway toward shifting, fire under my skin. It takes several heartbeats to orient myself—to recognize the ruined fortress around us, to feel Calliope's solid warmth against my chest. She stirs slightly with my jolting but doesn't wake, exhausted from the day's revelations and the gods' visions.

The dream clings like poison. Even now, I can smell the copper-sharp scent of her blood, see the light fading from her eyes. My arms tighten around her unconsciously, scales rippling beneath my skin as the dragon in me roars for blood.

But the protective fury is tempered by grief. I remember too well the boy who used to beg for stories, who dreamed of flying higher than anyone before. When did that wonder curdle into bitterness? When did his hunger for glory become this obsession with destroying everything I hold dear?

I would gladly kill him. Perhaps that’s why I am already halfway done grieving him.

Through the gaps in crumbling stone, I watch dusk paint the mountains in shades of blood and shadow. The storm has quieted somewhat, but that only makes it easier to imagine what moves in the gathering dark, out of eyeshot, out of earshot. Boot-steps crunching on snow. Metal clinking against metal. The soft whisper of blade leaving sheath.

They're coming. I feel it in my bones.

Calliope shifts in her sleep, pressing closer to my warmth. One of her hands rests protectively over her stomach, and through our bond, I feel our child's magic pulse in time with her heartbeat. The power growing within her is incredible, terrifying. No wonder Ulric wants to claim it for himself. No wonder the Gods themselves take interest in our child's fate.

I should wake her. Should start moving while we still have cover of twilight. Millrath lies weeks of hard travel to the south, and my throne grows more vulnerable with each passing day. The logical choice—the kingly choice—would be to fly us both back to the capital immediately, to secure our position before the Houses can move against us.

But I remember how pale she looked after the gods' visitation, how the magic drains more of her strength each day. Would she survive such a journey? Would our child? And even if they did, what then? Lock them both away in the castle while I wage war to keep my crown?

Choose wisely.

The sun sets. Darkness creeps in. And somewhere in the gathering gloom, enemies close like a noose around our shelter.

Eventually, I wake Calliope. We trudge onward.

Chapter 21 - Calliope

I wake to the snap and flutter of canvas strung in wind. The makeshift shelter around us trembles, pine boughs creaking against each other where Arvoren lashed them together hours ago. Through gaps in the greenery, I glimpse a pearl-gray sky heavy with coming snow. My bones ache with more than just the endless cold—they seem to know the storm building on the horizon, to resonate with it like struck crystal.

Arvoren kneels beside our nest of furs, studying a spread of wrinkled parchment by guttering candlelight. The flame casts strange shadows across his face, deepening the exhaustion etched there. His formal clothes, once immaculate, now bear the marks of our journey: tears from thorns, scorch marks from battle, bloodstains that won't wash out. A fresh scratch mars his jaw, still crusted with blood he hasn't bothered to clean away.

My heart clenches at the sight. Even now, after everything, the urge to reach for him burns like fever beneath my skin.

"How long until dawn?" I ask instead, my voice rough with sleep.

He doesn't look up from the maps. "An hour, maybe less. The weather's turning. We need to move."

I push myself to sitting, biting back a groan as my body protests. The child's magic pulses within me, stronger every day, but it takes its toll. Each surge of power leaves me weaker, as if they're drawing strength from my very blood to fuel their growing abilities.

Sometimes I catch Arvoren watching me with a mix of wonder and terror when he thinks I'm not looking. He can sense the changes in me through our bond, though he tries to hide his concern behind his usual mask of control. But I see how his hands clench when I stumble, how his jaw tightens each time I press a hand to my swollen belly.

"Here." He hands me a water skin without looking. "Drink. We have a long day ahead."

The water tastes of snow and pine needles. I drink deeply, watching him trace our route with one claw. His shoulders are rigid with tension, scales rippling beneath his skin in response to some thought he won't voice.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Now he does look at me, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. "The pass ahead is controlled by House Morwen. Their patrols have increased since—" He breaks off, smoke curling from between his teeth.

"Since your brother tried to claim your throne," I finish quietly.

His expression hardens. "We'll need to move quickly, stay off the main paths. If they catch your scent—"