Chapter 19: The First Kick
The door to their chamber closed with a soft, final click, sealing them in a world of velvet shadows and fractured light. The plans, the map, the cold geometry of murder still hung in the air between them, a spectre at the feast. Lilly moved to the vanity, her movements slower than usual, weighed down by the revelation she had carried. She picked up her hairbrush, its silver back cool against her palm.
Eris stood by the door, watching her. The strategic mask he wore in his study was still there, but around the edges, fatigue showed. A slight tightness at the corners of his eyes, a barely-there slump in his shoulders. He shed his jacket, draping it over a chair, and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt with methodical precision.
The only sounds were the whisper of bristles through her hair and the quiet pop of the dying fire. She watched him in the mirror’s reflection. He wasn’t looking at her face; his gaze was fixed lower, on the curve of her waist where her silk nightgown now strained, the soft, impossible swell of her stomach beneath.
Months. It had been months since the castle healers had confirmed it. Since the stunned silence in this very room had given way to a frantic, private sort of terror. A child. An heir born of a secret pact and a power older than the Cauldron. A catastrophic advantage with a heartbeat.
She set the brush down. The silence felt too loud. “It doesn’t change the plan,” she said, her voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “The… the ability. It’s the same. The pregnancy doesn’t affect it.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He finished with his cuffs and walked towards her, his steps silent on the thick rug. He stopped behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. She saw his face in the mirror now, his expression unreadable.
“I know,” he said, his voice low. “That is not my concern tonight.”
His thumbs began to move, pressing into the tight muscles at the base of her neck. A sigh escaped her, unbidden, and she let her head drop forward. His hands were warm, sure. He worked in silence for a minute, the tension in her shoulders gradually yielding under his touch. Then his hands stilled. They slid from her shoulders, down her arms, coming to rest over her own where they lay in her lap. Slowly, he guided her hands apart and placed his own large palm flat against the rounded firmness of her belly.
She held her breath.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the warmth of his hand through the silk. Then, a soft, distinct thump against his palm.
Eris went perfectly still. His eyes in the mirror were wide, frozen. All the calculation, the cold strategy, evaporated, leaving behind something raw and utterly disarmed.
It happened again. A stronger kick, a roll. A tiny elbow or knee pushing against the barrier of her skin, against his hand.
A shuddering breath left him. He didn’t speak. His other hand came up to join the first, cradling the curve of her stomach as if holding the world itself. He bent his head, his forehead coming to rest against the crown of her hair. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart where his chest pressed against her back.
“Gods,” he whispered, the word ragged, torn from somewhere deep inside him.
He straightened abruptly. His hands left her belly and turned her on the stool to face him. His expression was savage, stripped bare of all its guarded layers. There was awe there, and a terror that mirrored her own, and a ferocious, blazing wonder. He pulled her up, crushing her to him, his arms banded around her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. His mouth found hers in a desperate, consuming kiss.
It wasn’t gentle. It was need and fear and a claiming so profound it shook her to her bones. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The taste of him—cinnamon and wine and Eris—filled her senses. A low groan vibrated in his chest, and he walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed.
He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide in the golden light. His hands went to the hem of her nightgown, fingers trembling. It was the first time she had ever seen them shake.
“I need to feel you,” he growled, the words raw against her lips. “All of you.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He hiked the silk up, bunching it around her waist, then lifted her and laid her back on the deep emerald coverlet. He followed her down, covering her body with his, one knee sliding between hers to part her legs. His mouth was on her again, a hot, open-mouthed kiss that demanded everything. His hand slid from her thigh, over the soft swell of her hip, and cupped her between her legs.
She was already wet for him, the ache deep and immediate. He let out a rough sound of approval, his fingers slipping through her folds, finding her clit. He rubbed hard, precise circles, his gaze locked on hers. “This is mine,” he rasped, his voice dark with possession. “This heat. This life inside you. All of it. Mine.”
“Yes,” she gasped, arching into his touch. The turmoil of the evening, the fear, the dread, all coalesced into this single, desperate point of connection.
He shoved his own trousers down just enough, freeing his cock. It stood thick and hard, the tip glistening. He was never slow, not like this, when the need was this visceral. He positioned himself, the broad head nudging at her entrance. He pushed inside with one brutal, smooth thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt.
She cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by his mouth. He filled her completely, a stretching, perfect burn. He didn’t move for a moment, buried deep inside her, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath coming in hot gusts.
“You are going to be the mother of my heir,” he whispered, the words a vow, a threat, a prayer. “You are going to walk into that viper’s den and sing a king to his grave. And you will come back to me. To us.”
Then he began to move.
It was fast, deep, and unrelenting. Each stroke was a piston of pure need. The bed frame groaned in protest. He hooked his hands under her knees, driving her legs back, opening her wider, sinking deeper. The angle was perfect, every thrust grinding against that sweet, sensitive spot inside her. Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, low in her belly.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “I want to watch you come while I’m inside you.”
She obeyed, her own hand sliding down her body, her fingers finding her clit again, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The double sensation was overwhelming. She was stretched, filled, owned. Her eyes fluttered shut.
“Look at me,” he snarled.
She forced them open, meeting his burning gaze. His face was a mask of primal intensity, sweat beading on his temple. He was watching her every reaction, every gasp, every twitch of her fingers.
“That’s it,” he panted, pounding into her. “Take it. Take all of me. Remember who you belong to. Remember why we’re doing this.”
The coil snapped. Her climax tore through her, violent and shuddering, her inner muscles clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses. A raw, sobbing cry was ripped from her throat.
It triggered his own release. With a final, driving thrust, he buried himself deep and stilled. A harsh groan was wrenched from him as he came, his seed pumping hot inside her. He collapsed atop her, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the crook of her neck. His whole body trembled.
They lay there, tangled and spent, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the settling of the fire. The scent of sex and jasmine hung thick in the air.
Slowly, carefully, he rolled onto his side, taking her with him, keeping them joined. He brushed the damp hair from her forehead. His eyes, now clear of their wild fury, searched hers.
“I will not lose you,” he stated, the words simple, absolute, and colder than the obsidian in his study. “Not to my father’s schemes. Not to the burden of your power. Not even to the chaos of bringing a child into this fucking mess.”
She traced the line of his jaw, her finger coming away damp. “You won’t.”
He held her tighter. For a long time, they just breathed together in the dark. The plan was still there, waiting for them at dawn. The poison recipe was folded in a drawer. The map of the Forest House was rolled and bound. But here, in this velvet sanctuary, there was only this: his hand splayed once more over her belly, feeling the quiet, miraculous movements within, and her own hand resting atop his, anchoring them both against the coming storm.
But here, in this velvet sanctuary, there was only this: his hand splayed once more over her belly, feeling the quiet, miraculous movements within, and her own hand resting atop his, anchoring them both against the coming storm. Eventually, their breathing evened, and the sweat cooled on their skin. He withdrew from her body slowly, a possessive hand lingering on her hip. “Sleep,” he murmured into her hair, a command softened by exhaustion. “We train at dawn.”
The month that followed was a study in controlled chaos. Dawns were spent in the mist-shrouded training yard, the air sharp with cold. “Sing to that leaf,” Eris would order, pointing to a single oak leaf trembling on a high branch. His voice was calm, but his eyes were relentless, assessing every micro-expression on her face. The compulsion was a silent vibration, a weightless command she could now direct with sniper’s precision. The leaf would shudder and fall, spiraling down to land at his boots. “Again.”
Their nights were a different kind of training. His hands learned the new landscape of her body with a focus that was both clinical and devout. He mapped the swell of her breasts, the darkening line down her abdomen, the way she gasped now when he bit the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The sex was a desperate dialogue, a physical reinforcement of their pact. He would push her against the cold glass of the window, her rounded stomach pressed to the pane, and take her from behind with rough, grinding strokes, his fingers digging into her hips. “This is why,” he’d growl, each thrust a punctuation. “This is the life he would snuff out without a thought.” She would come with a choked cry, her pleasure tinged with a grief for the future they were fighting to steal.
A month to the day after the recipe had been laid on his desk, they were back in the obsidian study. The air still smelled of parchment and lightning. Eris was reviewing a report on the Autumn Court guard rotations, his pen making sharp annotations. Lilly had not sat down or settled.
She paced a worn path before the hearth, one hand pressed low on the pronounced curve of her belly. Her steps were short, restless. The silk of her dress whispered against the rug with every turn.
“Why are you pacing?” Eris asked without looking up, his voice its usual dry cadence. “The floorboards are not the enemy.”
She stopped, sighing a long, exasperated breath. “There’s currently a boxing match going on in my womb.” She rubbed her stomach in a slow, firm circle. “A very enthusiastic one. Little fists and feet, I think.” She looked down, her voice dropping to a soft, confidential whisper aimed at her stomach. “Relax a little, I won’t drink coffee anymore at all. I promise.”
A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which finally lifted from the paper to watch her. He set his pen down. “Caffeinated or not, this heir of mine seems to have inherited your relentless energy.” He leaned back, the chair groaning softly. “Come here.”
She walked to the side of his desk. He reached out, his palm warm through the fabric as he settled it over the frantic movements. A particularly strong kick pushed against his hand. His thumb stroked once, a slow, absent gesture. “The revel is in three days,” he said, his voice low. The statement lay between them, cold and real.
“I know.” She placed her hand over his, stilling his movement. “The poison is prepared. The distraction Rhysand promised is arranged.”
“And you?” His green eyes captured hers, sharp and unblinking. “You are certain you can do this, feeling like that?” He nodded toward her stomach, where another ripple of movement passed beneath their joined hands.
“The ability isn’t physical,” she said, repeating the truth she’d clung to. “It’s a thread I pull in my mind. The… boxing match doesn’t affect it.” She took a shaky breath. “What I need to know is if you are certain. Once I sing that note, there’s no calling it back. Your father drinks. He dies.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I have been certain for five hundred years.” The words were ice. He stood suddenly, the motion fluid, and rounded the desk. He didn’t embrace her. He simply stood before her, his presence enveloping. “You will stand beside me at that revel. You will be radiant, slight, harmless. A curious trifle from another world. He will look at you and see a vessel, not a weapon.”
He lifted a hand and traced the line of her jaw with a single finger. “And when the moment comes, you will be a weapon so exquisite he won’t feel the cut.” His finger trailed down her throat, over the frantic pulse. “Now, I need you to pull that thread for me. One last time before we go. A different kind of command.”
Her breath hitched. “What command?”
A dark, possessive heat flickered in his eyes. “I need you to look at me and tell me, explicitly, what you want me to do to you. Right now. Not a suggestion. A demand. Use that voice you practice on the leaves.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was another test, a brutal intimacy. She understood. He needed to see her wield her power, willingly, for him. To know she could command a room, a king, and still choose to give this to him. She wet her lips, drawing the air deep into her lungs, feeling the strange, silent power coil within her, a serpent of soundless vibration.
She wet her lips, drawing the air deep into her lungs, feeling the strange, silent power coil within her, a serpent of soundless vibration. The study’s electric hum faded beneath the gathering pressure in her chest. His gaze was a physical weight, expectant and unyielding.
She bit her lower lip, the gesture small and unguarded. “Promise you won’t mock me for this.”
He stared, his expression giving nothing. “I won’t.”
She held that emerald gaze, pulled the thread, and let the compulsion lace through her next words, giving them a resonant, undeniable weight that vibrated in the air between them. “Make love to me,” she commanded, the power smoothing her voice into something preternaturally compelling. Then the force faded, leaving only her own shaky whisper. “Sweetly. Please.”
A fierce blush scalded her cheeks and throat. The please hung there, vulnerable and exposed.
Eris’s eyes darkened. A slow, predatory smirk touched his mouth, the first true curve of humor she’d seen all night. It wasn’t mockery. It was conquest, and delight, and something fiercely approving. “As my lady commands,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
In one fluid motion, he closed the distance, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His kiss was not desperate or brutal like before. It was a deep, savoring exploration, slow and thorough. He tasted her, learning the shape of her embarrassment and her want.
He broke the kiss, trailing his lips along her jaw to her ear. “Sweetly,” he repeated, the word a soft promise against her skin. His hands slid down, fingertips whispering over the silk covering her shoulders, pushing the straps down with agonizing patience. The dress pooled at her feet, a whisper of surrender.
He looked his fill, his heated gaze traveling over the full curves of her breasts, the dramatic swell of her stomach, the slight tremor in her thighs. His smirk softened into something more profound. He bent, his arm hooking behind her knees, and lifted her against his chest with effortless strength.
He carried her not to the bed, but to the deep chaise lounge by the cold fireplace. He laid her down upon the velvet as if she were made of spun glass, arranging pillows beneath her head. He stripped off his own clothes with efficient motions, then knelt on the floor beside her.
His worship was methodical. He started with her feet, massaging the arches with firm, circular thumbs, kissing each ankle. He moved up her calves, his mouth and hands relearning every line and tension. He paid reverent attention to the inside of her knees, the sensitive skin of her thighs, kissing, nipping softly, laving with his tongue.
When he finally neared the junction of her legs, he paused, his breath warm against her. He looked up her body, meeting her dazed eyes. “Is this sweet enough?” he murmured, his voice rough.
She could only nod, her fingers threading into his auburn hair.
He didn’t take her with his mouth immediately. He nuzzled the soft skin of her inner thigh, inhaling deeply. His hands smoothed over her hips, her belly, a constant, soothing possession. Then, finally, he leaned in and kissed her center with a soft, closed-mouth press.
The sound she made was a broken sigh. He proceeded with devastating patience, each flick of his tongue a question, each slow suck a deliberate answer. He built the pleasure not in crashing waves, but in a rising, inexorable tide. His fingers joined, sliding into her with a gentle, curling motion that made her back arch off the chaise.
“Eris,” she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair, not to force, but to anchor.
He read her body’s signals with flawless precision. He gentled his touch just as the tension peaked, easing her back, then began again, varying rhythm and pressure until she was trembling, suspended on a wire of pure sensation. The orgasm, when it came, didn’t shatter her; it unfolded, warm and deep, pulling a low, continuous moan from her throat.
He rose above her, his body aligning with hers. He kissed her stomach, right over the spot where their child lay quiet now, lulled by her pulse. Then he kissed her mouth, letting her taste herself on his lips.
He entered her in one smooth, slow push, seating himself fully. He held there, buried inside her, his forehead resting against hers. Their breaths mingled. This was the opposite of their frantic coupling in the bedchamber; this was a claiming of terrifying tenderness.
He began to move. Deep, rolling thrusts that filled her completely. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each return a profound relief. He kept the pace measured, relentless, his eyes open and locked on hers. She could see the reflection of the sconce light in his pupils, could see the intensity of his focus, the awe beneath it.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracking hot into her hairline. He caught it with his thumb, his movements never faltering.
Their joining became a quiet, powerful dialogue. The sharp scent of parchment and lightning was gone, replaced by the salt of skin and a deeper, sweeter fragrance. The only sounds were their ragged breaths, the soft creak of the chaise, the wet, rhythmic slide of their bodies.
Her second climax built slowly, a coil of heat tightening low in her belly, spreading through her limbs. She clung to him, her nails scoring lightly down his back. He felt it, his rhythm stuttering. He drove into her once, twice more, then stilled, pulsing deep within her as his own release tore through him with a muted groan.
He collapsed beside her on the narrow chaise, pulling her tightly against him so they lay tangled, still joined. His heart hammered against her back, a wild drum against the languid aftermath. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his lips lingering.
For a long time, they lay in silence in the dark study, the specter of the coming revel momentarily held at bay by the warmth of skin and the slow, steady beat of two hearts, then three. His hand came to rest once more on her stomach, a silent vow painted in the dark.