Sunlight streamed through the delicate cotton curtains, casting warm gold streaks that danced across the rumpled bedsheets like gentle brushstrokes of light.

He was already awake, propped on one elbow, his gaze fixed intently on her serene form.

She lay curled beside him, her chest rising and falling in a soft, rhythmic pattern. Her hair spread out like a dark halo on the pillow, glistening slightly in the morning light. One arm was tucked snugly beneath her head, while the other rested possessively over her stomach, as if instinctively shielding herself even in the depth of sleep. The peacefulness of her face, with its gentle curves and slightly parted lips, brought a sense of calm that filled the room.

He didn't touch. Not yet.

Just watched.

The rise and fall of her chest.

The way her dark lashes fanned against her cheek.

The faint blush still lingering on her skin from last night's fevered kisses.

He remembered every sound she made. Every time she whispered his name like a prayer—or cried out like he was claiming more than just flesh.

And now... now she was his. In every way that mattered.

Slowly—so slowly—he reached out. Brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead. Then let his fingers trace down to rest gently over hers... where it lay upon the secret they now carried together.

His gaze fell to her mouth—to the way she bit her lip. He could see the faint flush on her face, the way she shifted slightly to ease the ache in her body... and something possessive flared up in him in that moment—hard and sharp.

"You sore?" he asked, his voice still rough with sleep. His fingers gently traced the curve of her hip, then slid down between her legs--lightly, just enough to tease the still-sensitive skin....

"What are you doing?" She shuddered.

He felt her trembling under his touch, and it only fueled the possessive hunger inside him. He leaned in closer--mouth hovering over hers--so close, her breath was warm against his lips.

"Can't help myself," he whispered--and the raw truth in the words sent a shiver down her spine.

"Can't keep my hands off you."

He lowered his head, his lips brushing along her jaw, then down her neck--teasing, exploring. He found a spot that made her shiver and bit down lightly, tongue darting out to soothe the mark he left.

Later that day,

They were having lunch with his parents. The dining room was stiff with formality—white linen, silver cutlery, the clink of porcelain. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, but the air felt heavy.

He sat beside her at the long table—his leg pressed subtly against hers under the tablecloth. A silent anchor.

His father—the elder Lord—cleared his throat and gave a tight smile.

"Son, we hear your return was... eventful."

"We trust you've settled into your duties—and marriage—with proper decorum."

A loaded pause.

His mother sipped her tea, eyes sharp as glass between them.

And then it happened—

She flinched—not visibly to others—but he felt it. A tiny shift beside him. The sudden pallor in her cheeks.

One hand slid slowly beneath the table to rest protectively over her stomach.

He saw it all in an instant.

Before anyone else could react, he reached under the cloth and covered her hand with his own. Warm. Firm. He told his parents about the pregnancy. There was a moment of silence so complete, you could hear the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. His parents' eyes went wide—shock and disbelief flashing across their faces.

His mother recovered first, schooling her expression into something stiff and polite. She set her teacup down delicately.

"How far along... are you?" she asked, voice carefully measured. His father leaned back in his seat, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. His gaze was cool and assessing as he looked at her across the table. His father had always been a man of composure and propriety--and right now... he looked like someone had just poured a bucket of cold water over his head.

"A month and a half," she replied, voice soft and steady despite the nerves twisting in her stomach. Her hand trembled slightly against his under the table--and he gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Her mother burst with happiness.

His mother's demeanour instantly changed—her eyes lit up, and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

"So it's true," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. A moment later, she was standing, moving around the table to pull his new wife into an unexpected embrace.

"You must take care of yourself, my dear," she said in a gentle, soothing tone, her fingers caressing the long, silken strands of her hair that flowed like a river of midnight. "We'll have such a wonderful little addition to the family..."

His mother's unexpected warmth enveloped him, her eyes shimmering with the kind of joy he hadn't witnessed in years as she pulled his wife into an affectionate embrace. It was a sight that took him by surprise; he couldn't remember the last time she had expressed such tenderness. Not since the Empire had cast its long shadow over their lives, hardening her once-lively voice and straightening her spine with the weight of burdens too great to bear.

And then—

She looked at him.

Not with expectation.

But pride.

"Son," she said, hand still on the younger woman's shoulder, "you're going to be a father."

A beat of silence.

He didn't speak.

Just reached for his wife under the table again—and laced their fingers tight..

A few days later, Siyaa got a letter from her childhood friend Dev. 

"The seal broke, and with it, the fragile peace they had found."

Is this letter a blessing, or the beginning of betrayal? 🖤