Page 44 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

"They'll what? Kill the heretic queen?" The words come out bitter. "I'm already marked for death by half the Houses in Kaldoria."

"They won't touch you." The possessive growl in his voice makes something low in my belly clench with heat. "I won't allow it."

"And what of our child?" I rest my hand over the swell of my stomach. "What future awaits them in a kingdom that sees their mother as a curse?"

He's beside me in an instant, his fever-hot hand covering mine. Through our bond, I feel his fierce protectiveness war with fear. “They will be safe. You know that.”

"If we survive long enough to see it." I lean into his warmth despite myself. "If your kingdom doesn't tear itself apart first."

His other hand cups my chin, turning my face up to his. "Then we'll build something new from the ashes. I’d do it for you."

The promise in his voice makes my chest ache. I want so badly to believe him—to trust that the man who once kept me in chains can become the protector our child needs. But trust, like love, must be earned. Must be chosen, again and again.

Before I can respond, a gust of wind tears through our shelter, snuffing out the candle and sending the maps scattering. Arvoren curses, gathering them quickly as the temperature plummets. Fat snowflakes begin to drift through the gaps in the pine boughs.

"We need to move," he says again, more urgently. "Now."

I struggle to my feet, wrapping my cloak tighter as another shiver wracks me. The storm builds in my blood like lightning about to strike, responding to my unease. Soon the very air will crack with winter's fury.

Arvoren dismantles our shelter with efficient movements while I force down some dried meat and berries. The food sits heavy in my stomach, but I know I need the strength. Know our child needs it more.

We set out just as false dawn begins to paint the sky in shades of iron and pearl. The eerie silence of the forest has begun to settle within me. It feels almost a part of my being now, after all this.

Arvoren leads the way, his steps careful on the treacherous ground. Ice coats everything, making each footfall a battle against gravity. I follow in his tracks, one hand pressed to my belly, the other trailing along tree trunks for balance.

The miles crawl by in a haze of exhaustion and growing cold. My legs shake with each step, and black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The child's magic pulses erratically, making the temperature fluctuate wildly. One moment sweat freezes on my skin; the next, I burn with fever from within.

Eventually, he notices my failing strength. Of course he does—he feels it through our bond, just as I feel his mounting concern. But we can't stop, can't risk being caught in the open when the storm hits. So he slows his pace, staying close enough to catch me if I fall.

The attack comes just before nightfall.

One moment we're picking our way through a dense stand of pines; the next, figures melt from the shadows ahead.

Their armor bears House Morwen's sigil, though it's partially obscured by frost and grime. The stench of cheap alcohol carries on the wind.

Drunkards, and fools. But we cannot afford a fight. Not in my condition. Not with the cold, the long journey, the exhaustion, the hunger…

"Well, well." The largest of them steps forward, smoke curling from his nostrils. "What have we here?"

Arvoren moves in front of me, his voice deadly quiet. "Stand aside."

The soldier laughs, the sound as sharp as breaking ice. "The dead king gives orders still! And what's this?" His eyes fix on me, gleaming with cruel interest. "You know, they say in Millrath that the people pray for your deaths. Our lord cares not, but he will pay well for your heads."

More soldiers emerge from the trees, forming a loose circle around us. I count six, then eight, then lose track as the world begins to spin. The child's magic rises unbidden, making my vision blur with power I can barely contain.

"Last warning." Scales ripple across Arvoren's skin as his dragon nature surfaces. "Move, or die where you stand."

"Bold words for a fallen king." The soldier draws his sword, the metal singing in the frozen air. "But there are eight of us and one of you."

Everything happens at once.

The transformation begins before any of us can move. Scales burst through Arvoren's skin in waves of ruby red, his formal clothing tearing as his body reshapes itself. Steam pours from between elongating teeth as he places himself between me and the soldiers, who take involuntary steps backward at the display of raw power.

But they've come too far to retreat now. The first soldier launches himself forward with impossible speed, his own partial transformation letting him match Arvoren's movements. Their bodies crash together with enough force to shake snow from nearby branches. Blood sprays across white ground as Arvoren's claws find flesh, but more attackers press in, their weapons gleaming dully in the fading light.

I try to help, reaching for the storm that always hovers at the edges of my consciousness. Power rises like a tide, making the very air crystallize—but something's wrong. The magic slips through my fingers like smoke, leaving me hollow and shaking. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as another wave of weakness hits.

My knees buckle. The world tilts sideways as I collapse into snow, one hand still pressed protectively to my stomach where our child's magic pulses erratically. Through blurred vision, I watch Arvoren fight with terrible efficiency, his partially transformed state letting him tear through flesh and bone as if they were parchment. But there are too many, and exhaustion slows his movements. A blade catches his shoulder, drawing first blood, and his roar of pain shakes loose more snow from the pines.