Two weeks passed in strange suspension, like breath held before a plunge.
Nathaniel returned to his duties, shoulders still stiff beneath fresh bandages, tracking foxes and setting snares along the estate's borders.
From the morning room windows, I watched him cross distant fields without approaching the main house.
No confrontation with Alistair. No midnight assassination attempt. Just careful distance that felt more dangerous than open warfare.
Spring crept across Blackwood lands, stretching shadows long and thin. Crocuses burst through frost-softened earth.
The sun lingered past five, then six—each extra minute of daylight another bar in Alistair's prison.
He remained trapped in his study, shutters sealed against the light that would burn him to ash, working through correspondence and accounts in his self-imposed tomb.
But when dusk fell, he belonged entirely to me.
"The regimen's working." Alistair settled into his chair by our bedroom fire, color warming his face to near-human. "Three deer tonight. The hunger stays manageable."
"Manageable." I crossed to him, silk skirts whispering. "Such romantic language from my husband."
"Would you prefer poetry?" His gray eyes tracked my movement with that new intensity—predator and protector combined. "Your blood sings symphonies, your pulse conducts orchestras, your very existence tests my questionable control."
"Better." I stopped beside his chair, close enough to feel the controlled coolness radiating from him. "Though still rather clinical."
"Helena." His voice dropped to that particular register that meant confession. "I can hear it now. The baby's heartbeat, distinct from yours."
My hand moved instinctively to the visible curve beneath my bodice. "What does it sound like?"
"Hummingbird wings." Wonder crept into his expression. "Fast, fierce, absolutely alive. When your rhythms sync, it's..." He paused, searching for words. "The hunger spikes, yes. The predator in me awakens. But something else grows stronger."
"What?"
"Hope." The word emerged raw. "I imagine holding our child. Seeing it in your arms. Being what I never thought possible after the change—a father."
The tenderness in his voice unraveled something tightly wound in my chest.
I moved without thinking, settling into his lap with the careful grace my expanding belly demanded. He stiffened, then relaxed, arms coming around me with deliberate restraint.
"You're already a father." I cupped his face between my palms. "Biology be damned."
"Helena—"
I kissed him, soft at first, tasting the careful distance he maintained even now. He answered gently, like a man afraid of breaking glass.
But when I pressed closer, fingers tangling in his hair, something shifted. His mouth opened against mine with sudden urgency, cool lips contrasting the heat building under my skin.
"Christ." He pulled back just enough to speak. "You're playing with fire."
"I'm playing with ice." I traced his jaw, feeling muscle jump beneath my touch. "Ice that makes me burn."
His laugh vibrated through me, dark and appreciative. "The irony isn't lost."
"Nothing about you is lost." I shifted in his lap, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. "Not the man who courted me. Not the husband who claimed this child. Not even the monster you think you've become."
"Helena—"
"Touch me." The command cracked between us. "Not like you're afraid. Like you want me."
His hands moved with sudden possession, one tangling in my hair, the other spreading across my lower back.
The kiss turned savage—teeth and tongue and barely-leashed hunger that should have terrified. Instead, heat pooled low in my belly, urgent and demanding.
"You're exquisite." He murmured against my throat, lips tracing the pulse that hammered there. "Growing our child, glowing with life, absolutely maddening."
"Alistair—"
"I want you." The confession tore from him. "Every part of you. The warmth, the softness, the way you trust me even now—"
"Then have me."
We stayed entwined until the fire burned low, relearning the geometry of desire with my changed body between us. His touch remained cool; my skin blazed in answer.
What had once been Nathaniel's domain—immediacy, desperation, consuming need—now belonged to Alistair in ways that defied logic.
When we finally separated, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to mine. "You'll be my destruction."
"Or your salvation." I rose carefully from his lap. "Either way, we're in this together."
* * *
Three days later, I met Maeve in the library's forgotten corner where dust motes danced through afternoon light. She looked haggard, purple shadows beneath her eyes like bruises.
"You look terrible."
"Charming as always." She pulled books from my arms, stacking them with violent precision. "Mother's reached new heights of manipulation. Father's drinking himself toward bankruptcy. Between them, they're preparing to accept Pemberton's fourth proposal on my behalf."
"They can't force—"
"They can." Maeve slammed a volume down hard enough to echo. "Mother told me this morning—they're meeting with him tomorrow. Final negotiations. She said my refusals were a maiden's modesty that they'd overcome on my behalf."
"Christ."
"Pemberton's done with rejections." Her voice turned bitter. "Told Mother he won't tolerate further delays. And he has already turned down another woman with whom he was at your celebration. He wants a spring wedding within three weeks. Before his last wife's grave grass grows properly."
"They can't simply hand you over—"
"Watch them." Steel entered her voice. "Cut off my allowance, lock me in my room, drag me to the altar if necessary. Father's already drafting the settlement terms. I'll be merchandise sold by week's end."
"Maeve—"
"I'll run first." Her fingers went white against the book spines. "Take what I can carry and disappear into London's underbelly. Better a governess or shop girl than Pemberton's fourth victim."
I studied her fierce face—intelligence burning behind desperation, rebellion barely contained by propriety's chains. My friend deserved better than flight or forced marriage. She deserved what I'd found, however unexpectedly, with Alistair. Partnership. Purpose. Actual affection.
"There's another way."
"Helena—"
I smiled, already seeing the pieces move across the board.