And the heir currently growing in her belly.
From the corner of my eye, I see her step back into the bedroom, the en suite door facing the king-size bed. She takes a few steps forward, then stops. I feign to be riveted by my book as she makes a sharp right and takes another few steps, but never distances herself from the foot of the bed.
She’s acting like a malfunctioning wind-up doll. Not that I would ever call her my doll again. I like my place next to her throne far too much.
My queen.
Finally, I lift my gaze and find her rooted to the spot, chewing on her nail in the middle of the room, eyes wide with what Ithinkis apprehension.
With slow, deliberate movements, I close my book and place it on the bedside table. “Something on your mind, my beloved Veil Vulturine?”
“Hmm?” she says, her thumb still in her mouth, brows raised in alarm.
She seems to realize what she’s been doing and rips her thumb out of her mouth. Laughing nervously, she rubs her nape, then folds one arm around her waist, curling her fingers around the opposite arm.
She’s a blatant show of nerves, and for once, I’m stumped as to why.
“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” I press since she has yet to say a single word.
“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” she blurts out.
“Correct,” I say slowly, my eyes narrowing.
I pat her side of the bed, but don’t bother saying anything further. Her shoulders slump, but she scurries over to her side and crawls under the covers beside me.
I turn to face her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly.
My face drops as I eye her warily, conveying just how much I don’t believe her.
She sighs and looks up at the ceiling before finally giving mesomehint of what’s troubling her. “I’ve been thinking,” she starts as she stares at a spot on the duvet between us, “about how much has changed since my last birthday … and how much will continue to change now that I’m turning twenty-six.” She lifts her gaze, watery with unshed emotions. “I don’t want to begin this important chapter without—” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat, toying with her lips nervously. “Without telling you that I love you.” She pushes out the end of her sentence in one hurried breath.
My heart drops. Then does multiple pirouettes in my chest before I find my voice again.
I reach for her face, trailing the back of my hand on her cheek. “Can you repeat that? Slower this time,” I say, a hint of tease in my tone.
Her smile is shy, as if she exhausted all of her courage just to say it. “I love you.”
Her finger feathers over my tattoo—hertattoo—and I slowly curl my palm over her hand, bringing it up to my lips. “I love you too.”
“But …”
She tries to take her hand away, but I tighten my grip, pulling her closer instead. She gives me a half-hearted eye roll, but doesn’t resist or protest.
“But what?” I murmur into her fingers as I continue to press kisses into her palm.
The nerves return. She chews on her bottom lip, then swallows hard.
“I don’t know if I trust you yet.”
A vague sense of relief washes over me.
“That’s a small matter, beloved.”
She scoffs, but there’s humor tucked in the echo of the sound. “Such arrogance,” she says under her breath.
I know what she will say next, so I beat her to the punch. “Time,” I reply.
