“Always active after breakfast.” I found myself sharing without meaning to. “I think the sugar wakes them up.”
“Them?” His head snapped up, eyes searching mine.
“Figure of speech,” I said quickly, not ready to reveal that particular secret. “The healer says the baby is developing well.”
He accepted the deflection, returning his attention to the gentle movements beneath his palm. “I want to be here for all of it. Every appointment, every milestone. If... if you’ll let me.”
The vulnerability in his request, the way this powerful man was essentially asking permission to be part of his child’s life, created cracks in defenses I desperately needed to maintain. It would be so easy to forgive, to forget, to pretend the past months hadn’t happened. But forgiveness wasn’t mine alone to give. My parents still suffered in the outbacks because of his judgment. The pack still believed I was a murderer because he’d needed someone to blame.
“We’ll see,” I managed, the most I could offer.
He nodded, accepting the non-answer with grace that surprised me. His hand remained on my belly a moment longer, thumb stroking gently as if memorizing the feeling. When he finally pulled away, the loss of contact felt unexpectedly acute.
“I brought more reading materials,” he said, gesturing to a stack of books I hadn’t noticed. “About omega pregnancy, nutrition, exercise. I thought maybe we could go through them together. When you feel up to it.”
The idea of Damon Kildare, wanting to read pregnancy books with me was so absurd I almost laughed. But the earnest hope in his expression stopped me. This was his way of trying, of attempting to bridge the chasm his actions had created. It wasn’t enough, might never be enough, but it was something.
“Maybe later,” I conceded. “I tire easily these days.”
“Of course. Rest is important. I’ll leave these here for whenever you’re ready.”
He began gathering the breakfast dishes, movements careful and domestic in a way that still seemed surreal. The Lycan King clearing plates like a common servant, all because he was trying to show care he’d denied for months. The contradiction of it made my head spin.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked at the door, arms full of china and leftovers.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Always,” he said seriously. “You always have a choice with me now. I’m trying to learn that lesson.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my swirling thoughts and a stack of pregnancy books that represented hope I wasn’t ready to embrace. But as I reachedfor the top volume, curiosity winning over caution, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, people could change after all.
By the time Damon returned, it was already afternoon. Since I had already had my lunch, this time there was no pretense of food or research materials. He stood in the doorway hesitantly, an expression I’d never seen on his face before, uncertainty mixed with determination.
“Your feet,” he said without preamble. “I noticed you rubbing them at dinner last night. The books say swelling is common, especially in the afternoons.”
I looked down at my ankles, indeed puffy above the slippers I’d forced on that morning. The ache had become so constant I’d stopped noticing it, just another discomfort in a sea of changes my body was experiencing.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically, the response ingrained from months of having only myself to rely on.
“You don’t have to be fine.” He moved into the room, carrying a basin I hadn’t noticed. Steam rose from the water, and I caught the scent of lavender and something medicinal. “You don’t have to endure discomfort just because you can.”
“Since when do you care about my comfort? You do realize I am still locked inside this room, right?” The words came out sharper than intended, but he didn’t flinch.
“Since I realized how much discomfort I’ve caused.” He set the basin down near the couch, then surprised me by dropping to his knees beside it. “Will you let me try to ease this small bit? We can revisit your release later.”
The sight of him on his knees, preparing to wash my feet like a servant, sent conflicting emotions through me. Part of me wanted to refuse, to maintain the anger that kept me safe from hoping. But my feet truly did ache, and the steam rising from the water looked so inviting.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, but I moved to the couch anyway.
“Probably,” he agreed, helping me settle against the cushions. “But the book said warm water with Epsom salts helps with swelling. And the lavender is supposed to be calming.”
He lifted my feet gently, one at a time, removing the slippers with care. His hands were warm as they guided my feet into the water, and I couldn’t suppress a small sigh of relief at the temperature. It was perfect, hot enough to soothe without burning, the salts immediately working to ease the persistent ache.
“Too hot?” he asked, watching my face intently.
“No, it’s... it’s good.”
He nodded, then began massaging my feet while they soaked. His touch was clinical at first, clearly following some guide he’d memorized. But as I unconsciously relaxed, his movements became more confident. His thumbs worked into my arches with just enough pressure, fingers kneading the swollen tissue gently but effectively.
