Blaise’s blood that commands me through the bloodsharing ritual.
Blaise’s voice in my ear.
Actually I’d prefer if the parasite just took over my body permanently. Less to deal with.
Kidding.
I want you to snap my neck if that ever happens.
I want you to snap my neck if that ever happens.
So I do.
CHAPTER 40
BLAISE: PRESENT
Pain cracks through me, reverberating through my bones and paralyzing my muscles, making the task at hand impossible.
“You have to push, Blaise.”
“I can’t!” It comes out more like a garbled scream than a string of words that are supposed to hold any meaning, but Nox understands.
He’s the only one who understands.
My mate refrains from wiping at the sweat beading on my brow. The last time he tried that, I snapped my teeth at him; he wisely refrained from offering me a wicked grin.
Instead, he laces his fingers through mine, squeezing so tightly it hurts, so thoroughly it’s likely to form a bruise, but I’m grateful for it.
It gives me somewhere to fixate, another focal point of pain to distract me from—
Another contraction sweeps through me, and I almost choke on my own saliva.
I scream and scream and scream.
Nox only squeezes tighter.
“You have to push, Blaise.”
I push, and it’s as if the pain explodes within me.
But then it’s gone—well, not completely. It seeps away, soaking into the blankets tucked close to my splayed feet.
“It’s a boy,” says the midwife as she wipes him off, as she swaddles my son.
A boy.
My son.
Nox’s cheeks drain of color, and his brilliant blue eyes water. Tears spill down his cheeks as the maid tucks our child into my arms.
He’s warm, a pleasant weight against my chest, and I know better than to let him out of my sight, out of my arms.
When he coos, my lips part in delight, and when I brush my pinkie finger against his cheek, he turns into my touch.
Nox slips into the bed behind me, cradling the both of us in his grasp.
Sunlight peeks through the window and highlights the glinting ring on Nox’s finger.
“Thomas, quit harassing your sister while she’s trying to get her work done.”
My voice is firm, but not harsh, as our youngest son flashes me a grin that melts my heart and threatens my resolve, but I point to the door and he scampers away.
Rose is reading at the desk. She’s been at it for an hour, and her mutterings are becoming more pronounced, her finger pressing harder into the pages as she traces the path for her eyes.
She’s eleven and still struggles with her sentences, and she becomes frustrated when Nox tries to help her.
I’m not much help, so I brew her tea and let her have extra sugar cubes to make up for the time her brothers get to play outside after they’ve finished their studies.
When I ask her if the letters ever become jumbled, if they ever try to run away, she tells me no.
Nox is in the garden, holding Anders to his chest. Now that Rose has returned to us, I’ve stopped thinking of Anders as my third and his second. Nox treats Rose like his own, no different than Thomas and Anders, and it’s one of the things I adore about him.
He’s at such peace here, tending to our little garden. We’ve gotten plenty good at it, but his mother still visits twice a week to assist us.
I think she likes having an excuse to visit.
I think we like her having an excuse too.
The sun beats down on Nox’s neck, browning it in areas that once were so pale, sallow.
Nox tries not to think of those times, of the years he spent pent up as the queen’s slave, her son and magister and executioner. He tries not to think of them, so I remember them on his behalf.
I feel as though someone needs to remember.
The little boy who had his childhood stolen from him deserves that much.
Nox turns and smiles at me, wiping dirt onto his pants and smudging the fabric.
His face is tanned, too.
There’s something about it that isn’t right.
Perhaps it’s that he typically wears a hat, but today he’s forgotten it indoors. I gently scold him, warning him he’ll catch sunburn again.
But that’s not right either.
The not-rightness of it all hovers in the air, warping the edges of my vision, of the scene before me.
