It had been nearly three months since the wedding that never happened.
Since Clarissa’s scream, the dagger, the blood.
Since everything cracked open and rebuilt itself around what was left.
The court had quieted. Alexander was healing—physically, at least. The wound in his side had scabbed and scarred, though I still caught him wincing when he moved too fast.
And me—I’d been… off.
Not sick. Just different.
I’d been sleeping more. Crying at things that shouldn’t have made me cry. My body felt heavier in strange ways, my appetite shifting without reason. I kept brushing it off. Stress. Exhaustion. Grief.
But tonight, as I sat alone in our chamber with the rain tapping steady against the windows, it all clicked into place.
I pressed a hand to my stomach.
And I knew.
It wasn’t fear that filled me.
It was awe.
My hands trembled as I pressed them to my middle again. I couldn’t feel anything there yet. No swell. No shape.
But still—I knew.
The door opened quietly behind me.
“Marianne?” Alexander’s voice, low and warm.
I turned to him, and in that moment I couldn’t speak. The words were in my mouth, my throat, my heart—but they stuck. Tangled in the wonder.
He stepped forward slowly, his brow creasing. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. Then shook my head. Then nodded again.
He came to kneel in front of me, his hands resting gently on my knees. “What is it?”
I reached for his hand, pulled it close, and placed it on my stomach.
At first, he didn’t understand. He waited. His thumb brushed slow circles on the silk of my gown.
And then—I watched it hit him.
His eyes widened. His breath hitched. His fingers went still.
“You’re—?” he breathed.
I nodded again, a laugh breaking through my tears. “I think so.”
He exhaled hard and then pulled me into him, arms wrapped tight around my waist, his face buried in the curve of my shoulder. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice breaking with joy. “I mean—not that it matters. I just—are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” I whispered. “I wanted to tell you the second I knew.”
He leaned back, cupped my face. “You’re going to be a mother.”
I laughed, tears spilling. “And you—” I poked his chest, “—are going to be the most overprotective father in Solmar.”
He kissed me, long and slow, like he needed to memorize me all over again.
For a while we just stayed like that—holding each other, breathing together, the rain tapping gently outside. The fire crackled low in the hearth, and everything else—the court, the curse, the crown—fell away.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at me seriously. “Does it scare you?”
I thought about it.
The answer should have been yes.
But it wasn’t.
“No,” I said. “Not with you. Not anymore.”
He smiled—full and wide, a rare thing for him. “I didn’t think I could have something like this. Not with the curse.”
His voice dipped then, quiet.
“It still stirs,” he admitted. “Some nights. I feel it pacing beneath my skin, like it’s waiting. But it doesn’t take me the way it used to.”
I nodded. I knew. I’d felt it too—those moments when he gripped the bedframe too tightly, when his shoulders stiffened under moonlight. But he always came back. Always.
“Maybe it’s not about breaking it,” I said gently. “Maybe it’s just… living with it. Together.”
He rested his forehead against mine. “Then I’ll live for you. For both of you.”
We sat there, the three of us—though only two could be seen—bathed in firelight and hope.
Whatever came next, we’d face it.
As a family.