Page 41 of The Survivors (The Children of the Sun God #4)

Michail

“Rest now, my heart; together, we’ll face what comes.”

My heart breaks for the children we’ve lost. Their tiny faces that never had a chance to form linger in the corners of my mind. I’ll carry them with me always.

I understand Niki’s concerns; her fear that she might never cradle a crying babe in her arms.

But I’m confident, even if I can’t fully explain it to her. A pregnancy unburdened by the stresses she’s endured could change everything. Hope is fragile, though, and I worry that voicing it might feel like blame. What if she thinks I’m accusing her of being at fault? The thought tightens my throat, silencing me before I can even try.

I hold her. My arms become the only expression I can trust, wrapping her in a promise I can’t yet put into words. For a moment, she resists—her body taut with lingering tension. Then, slowly, her arms come around me, and she squeezes me as though anchoring herself to something solid. Her grip is fierce, almost desperate, and yet it soothes the protector in me.

My nature preens. To provide comfort is my purpose, my pride. The others have drifted off to their tasks, and their presence is a distant hum outside this cocoon we’ve created. Even if the world crumbles around us, I wouldn’t dare move. This moment is too precious to lose.

“Mate is sleeping,” my bull rumbles, vibrating my chest.

I glance down and tilt my head, angling to catch a better view of her face. Her eyelids are closed, and her lashes rest against cheeks flushed from the day’s exertion. Her breathing is even. He’s right. She fell asleep standing in my arms, trusting me completely.

“We take good care of our mate,” my bull adds with a note of pride in his tone.

“Yes, we do,” I murmur.

Slowly, I lift her into my arms, cradling her as gently as if she were one of the children she spoke of.

The tent she shares is too small, and its opening too cumbersome to navigate without waking her. I decide to bring her to my space, where I can keep her close. Her weight is light, almost too light, and I make a mental note to ensure she eats more starting tomorrow.

I set her down on my bedroll, careful not to jostle her too much. The shoes I’d gotten her sit neatly by her belongings, untouched. She’s refused to wear them, claiming they pinch and make her feel disconnected from the earth.

I pull away to remove my boots. Her body remains limp, and her face peaceful in a way I rarely see when she’s awake. There’s no trace of worry or furrow between her brows or tension in her lips. Carefully, I climb in beside her, adjusting her until she’s tucked against my chest with her head resting just below my collarbone.

Her soft, even breaths tickle my skin, and a faint snore escapes her lips—a sound so endearing I can’t help but smile.

“Mate is at peace,” my bull observes. His satisfaction mirroring my own.

“Yes, she is.” And we will make sure it lasts.

I stroke her hair, threading my fingers through its softness, and then press a kiss to her temple. I feel at peace too. Together, we’re a patchwork of grief and hope, stitched together by moments like this. And though the future remains uncertain, I know this much: I will never stop protecting her and never stop holding her when she needs me most.