Page 46 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

"We need to move," he says finally, though I feel his reluctance to disturb this moment of peace. "Find shelter before the storm worsens."

I nod against his chest, knowing he's right but not quite ready to face the world again. Here in his arms, with ancient magic still singing in my blood and our child's power pulsing between us, I can almost believe in happy endings.

He stands carefully, cradling me against him as if I'm made of glass. Steam rises where his boots touch snow, and frost patterns dance in the air around us—dragon-fire and winter storm in perfect harmony.

Above, the storm breaks at last, and snow falls thick and fast. But we're together, we're alive, and we're not alone in this fight.

Whatever comes next, we face it as one.

Chapter 22 - Arvoren

The dawn bleeds silver against black stone. We make our way down a narrow mountain path, my boots finding purchase where Calliope's would slip. She sleeps against my chest, cradled there, breath coming in soft puffs that freeze in the bitter air. Her magic pulses erratically—sometimes a small storm, sometimes barely a whisper. The child grows stronger each day, while I know she grows weaker.

There is a war inside me, a conflict of such magnitude I have never had to weather before. But I do now. I know I have no choice.

I've carried her since sunrise. Since the night before that. Since she stumbled three days ago and could not rise again. The exhaustion that claims her now is deeper than mere physical fatigue—it roots in her bones, in her blood, in the very essence of what she is. What our child is making her become.

I do not resent our child. How could I? Already, I feel the kind of love for them I never thought I could be capable of, not before Calliope. Still, seeing her this way is unparalleled agony.

The path winds endlessly south. Jagged peaks loom on either side, their ancient faces scarred by wind and ice. Even my enhanced vision can barely pierce the pre-dawn gloom. But I know these mountains, know their moods and mercies. Know how they can kill.

At some point, Calliope stirs against me. The hours have been passing strangely, too fast and too slow all at once.

"Put me down," she mumbles. "I can walk."

"You can barely stand." The words come out harsher than intended. Smoke curls from between my teeth despite the bitter cold. "Save your strength."

"For what?" Her laugh is soft, humorless. "The next fight? The next storm? Your brother's next scheme?"

I say nothing. What can I say? That I would burn the world to keep her safe? That every step south feels like betrayal, leaving my kingdom vulnerable while I carry my pregnant wife through endless winter? That the fear of losing her again burns hotter than any dragon's flame?

Instead, I adjust my grip, pulling her closer against the wind that howls between peaks. Her skin feels too cool even through layers of fur and leather. The storm that has followed us for weeks has gentled somewhat, but the cold remains deadly.

"There's a sheltered valley ahead," I tell her. "We'll rest there. Find food."

She doesn't argue, which worries me more than her earlier protests. Through our bond, I feel her exhaustion like a physical weight. I feel each inch of pain her ordeal has left her bearing. I wish I could take it for her, take itfromher.

The sun climbs higher as we descend, washing the snow in shades of rose and gold. The path widens slightly, allowing me to move faster. Every so often, Calliope's hand drifts to her swollen belly, a gesture that makes something twist painfully in my chest. How long before I can no longer hide her condition? How long before my enemies learn of this vulnerability?

Near midday, we reach the valley I remembered. Ancient pines crowd close here, their branches heavy with snow but offering some shelter from the wind. A stream still runs beneath thick ice, and I catch glimpses of fish moving in the clear water below.

I set Calliope down carefully in a hollow formed by massive tree roots. She leans back against ancient bark, eyes closed, breath shallow. The shadows beneath her eyes have deepened, and her cheekbones stand out too sharply in her pale face.

"Rest," I tell her. "I'll find food."

Her eyes flutter open. "Be careful."

The words catch me off guard; not a command or challenge, just simple concern. Like a wife worried for her husband. Like we're normal people who can afford such ordinary fears.

I touch her cheek briefly, savoring the trust in that small gesture. Then I move into the forest, tracking the scent of prey through snow-muffled silence.

The hunt is quick—these woods still hold game, sheltered from the worst of winter's fury. I return with two hares, already cleaned and ready for the fire I know she needs more than I do. My blood keeps me warm, but Calliope…

She's dozed off again, curled around her belly as if protecting our child even in sleep. I build the fire without waking her, positioning it to reflect heat off the stone outcropping behind us. The flames catch quickly, and soon the scent of cooking meat fills our small shelter.

"You remembered." Her voice startles me. I turn to find her watching through half-lidded eyes.

"Remembered what?"