Her bare feet found the rough plank floor, the wood grain cool and uneven beneath her arches, a texture she'd never have felt in the palace—where marble stayed warm even in winter, where carpets swallowed every step. She pressed her toes down, feeling the grain, the splinters worn smooth by years of farm boots. The moon hung low and fat over the fields, silvering the furrows, and through the cracked pane the air came to her smelling of turned earth and hay, of the world outside this room that kept moving while she stood still.

A distant dog barked, and she heard the loneliness in it, the way it carried across the empty dark and found nothing to answer. She wrapped her arms around herself, the thin shift doing little against the night chill, and let her eyes find him.

Adil stood at the edge of the yard, his silhouette sharp against the moonlit fields, and she watched the set of his shoulders—the way they carried the weight of every road they'd fled, every mile of dust and fear and looking over their shoulders. He scanned the dark in a slow, practiced rhythm, head turning left, then right, then left again, and she knew that rhythm. She'd watched him do it a hundred times in the palace corridors, in the throne room, at the gates of the city. The soldier never fully off duty. The man who'd promised her his sword and his life and had meant every word.

His hand rested on his sword hilt even now, even here, in a farmhouse at the end of the world, with nothing but fields and silence around them. She wondered if he slept with it. She wondered if he'd slept at all since they'd fled the palace, or if he'd spent every night standing in some dark place, watching for riders that never came—until the night they almost did.

The twins fluttered, a soft ripple low in her belly, and she pressed her palm to the warm swell of her stomach. Fourteen weeks. Fourteen weeks of running, of hiding, of her body changing in ways she couldn't control and her life changing in ways she couldn't stop. She'd been a queen when she'd left, a woman who'd given orders and expected them obeyed. Now she was a fugitive in a farmhouse, wearing a shift that had belonged to the farmer's wife, carrying twins that had no idea how much the world wanted them gone.

Her hand moved in a slow circle over the swell, feeling the faint flutter again, and she thought of the cradle Adil had built—the one she'd refused to trade for a better one. She thought of his hands on the wood, planing and sanding, shaping something for children he'd risked everything to have. She thought of the way he'd looked at her when she'd told him she wanted this one, this cradle, made in a dusty barn while they were hiding from the world.

The dog barked again, closer this time, and she watched Adil's head turn toward the sound, his shoulders tensing, his hand moving on the hilt. She could see the exhaustion in his posture even from here—the slight forward lean of his spine, the way his head hung a fraction lower than it should, the heaviness in his limbs that came from too many nights of watch and too few hours of sleep. He'd been standing guard since before sunset, and she knew he'd stand there until dawn if she let him.

She remembered the first time she'd seen him. He'd been a young captain then, newly promoted, standing at attention in her father's throne room with his shoulders squared and his eyes fixed on a point above everyone's heads. She'd been eighteen, watching from behind the curtain, and she'd thought he looked like a statue, carved from bronze and discipline. She'd never imagined those hands on her body. She'd never imagined those eyes looking at her the way they looked now, when he thought she wasn't watching.

But she was always watching. She'd spent her whole life learning to read people, to see what they didn't want seen, and Adil Kassar was the most readable man she'd ever known—once you learned to look past the soldier. The discipline was real, the control was real, but beneath it was a hunger that matched her own, a need that had been building for years before they'd ever touched. She'd seen it in the way his jaw tightened when she walked past. She'd seen it in the way his hands curled at his sides, like he was stopping himself from reaching for her.

Now there was nothing to stop him from reaching. No court, no protocol, no eyes watching them from the shadows. Just a farmhouse and a moon and a woman who needed him more than she'd ever needed anything except the breath in her lungs.

She pushed away from the window, her feet making soft sounds on the planks, and moved through the dark room. The furniture was simple—a table, two chairs, the cradle in the corner where the shadows gathered thickest. She could smell the wood of it, pine and something sweeter, and she ran her fingers along the edge as she passed, feeling the smooth curve of the rail. His hands had shaped this. His hands had shaped everything she had left.

The door was unlatched, and she pushed it open slowly, the hinges groaning in the quiet. The night air hit her bare arms, cool and damp, and she saw him turn at the sound, his hand already on his sword, his body shifting into a defensive stance before he recognized her. The tension bled out of his shoulders, but only some of it, and she saw his eyes move past her, scanning the dark behind her, the habit of a man who'd spent too many nights waiting for death to find him.

"You should be in bed." His voice was low and rough, the voice she'd heard groan her name in the dark, the voice that had whispered promises she'd carried across half a kingdom. It was softer now, worn thin by exhaustion, and she heard the worry in it.

"I couldn't sleep." She moved toward him, her bare feet finding the packed earth of the yard, cool and slightly damp under her soles. "You've been out here for hours."

"Someone has to watch." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and she felt the weight of it settle in her chest. He'd been watching for weeks. Watching for riders, for danger, for anything that might threaten her or the twins. He'd been watching so long that she wondered if he remembered how to stop.

She stopped in front of him, close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the shadows beneath them, the stubble darker on his jaw than it had been at dawn. He'd stopped shaving. She'd noticed it two days ago, the roughness of his skin when he kissed her, and she'd liked it more than she should have. He looked wilder like this, closer to the man underneath the uniform, the man who'd carried her into a bath chamber and made her forget her own name.

"Adil." She said his name softly, and she watched something in his face shift, the soldier receding, the man emerging. She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body through the night air, and she saw his hands twitch at his sides, the way they always did when she came near, like he was holding himself back.

She didn't want him to hold back. She'd had enough of holding back, of being careful, of doing what was expected. She was fourteen weeks pregnant with his twins, hiding in a farmhouse from the men who'd once called her queen, and she was done with restraint.

Her arms closed around him from behind, her cheek pressing against the broad plane of his back, her belly pressing against the curve of his spine. She felt him go still, felt the tension in his body as he registered the feel of her against him, and she let herself breathe in the smell of him—sweat and leather and the faint sharpness of the night air. She felt his heartbeat through his back, steady and strong, and she pressed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the rough fabric of his tunic.

He didn't move for a long moment, and she felt the battle in him, the soldier warring with the man, the watch warring with the wanting. Then his hands came up, covering hers where they lay against his chest, and she felt the warmth of his palms, the calluses rough against her skin. He squeezed, a slow, deliberate pressure, and she felt the sigh that moved through him, the release of a tension she hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Esme." Her name on his lips, low and rough, and she heard everything in it—the exhaustion, the fear, the love he'd finally said out loud in this dusty farmhouse, the weight of everything they'd risked and everything they still stood to lose. She pressed closer, feeling the twins flutter between them, feeling the small movement that was the only proof she had that this was real, that she was really carrying his children, that they'd really made something worth protecting.

The dog barked again, and she felt him tense, felt his hands tighten on hers, felt the soldier surge back to the surface as his body prepared to respond to the threat. But she held on, her arms tight around him, her belly pressed against his back, and she felt the moment pass, felt him force himself to relax, felt him choose her over the watch.

"It's just the wind," she whispered against his back, her lips brushing the fabric of his tunic. "It's just the dog. It's just the night."

He turned in her arms, slowly, his hands finding her hips, and she looked up at him in the moonlight. His dark eyes met hers, and she saw the exhaustion there, the weight of every road they'd fled, every fear they'd outrun, every night he'd stood guard while she slept. She saw the love too, the thing he'd finally given her words for, and she saw the fear that lived beneath it—the fear of losing her, of losing the twins, of failing at the only thing he'd ever truly wanted.

The moonlight caught the lines of his face, the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the new shadows that hadn't been there when they'd left the palace. He'd been eating less, she knew. He'd been sleeping less. He'd been watching, always watching, and she saw the cost of it in every line of his body.

His hands moved on her hips, a slow, almost unconscious stroke, his thumbs tracing circles on the thin fabric of her shift. She felt the warmth of his palms through the cloth, felt the calluses catch on the weave, and she leaned into him, her belly pressing against his, the swell of her carrying his children between them. She saw his eyes drop to the place where their bodies met, and she saw something shift in his face—the exhaustion softening, the fear easing, the love rising to fill the space.

"I need you," she said, her voice raw, the words falling out of her before she could shape them. "I need you so much, Adil. I need you to stop watching for a moment. I need you to be here. With me. Not out there, in the dark, waiting for something to go wrong."

She took his hand, and she guided it under the hem of her shift, lifting the thin fabric until his palm met the warm swell of her stomach. She felt his breath catch, felt the tremble in his fingers as they spread across the curve, felt the way he held himself so still, like he was afraid of breaking something precious. The twins fluttered beneath his hand, a faint movement that she felt and knew he felt too, and she saw his eyes go bright in the moonlight.

"They're right here," she whispered. "They're right here, and so am I. And I need you to be here with us. Not standing watch. Not scanning the dark. Here."

He exhaled, a broken sound that was almost a sob, and she felt the tension drain out of him, the soldier finally, finally standing down. His hand stayed on her belly, his palm warm against her skin, and his other hand came up to cup her face, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.

"I don't know how to stop," he said, his voice rough and low, and she heard the confession in it, the thing he'd never said out loud. "I don't know how to be here without watching the dark. I don't know how to love you without protecting you."

"Then love me," she said, her hand covering his where it lay on her belly. "Love me, and let me protect you for once. Let me hold you. Let me be the thing that keeps the dark away for a moment."

He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching her face, and she saw the battle in him, the soldier fighting the man, the watch fighting the wanting. Then something in him gave way, something she'd been trying to reach for weeks, and he pulled her into him, his arms wrapping around her, his face pressing into her hair.

She felt him shake, felt the tremor that ran through him, felt the way he held her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. She wrapped her arms around him, her hands finding the broad planes of his back, and she held him, held him the way she'd wanted to hold him since the night they'd fled the palace, held him while the moon climbed higher and the dog fell silent and the wind moved through the fields like a breath.

His hand was still on her belly, and she felt the twins flutter again, a small, insistent movement, and she felt him go still, felt him feel it, felt the wonder that moved through him even now, even after weeks of knowing. He pulled back just enough to look at her, and she saw the wetness in his eyes, the thing he'd never let her see before, and she reached up to wipe it away with her thumb.

"I love you," she said, the words easy now, the thing she'd said once in a bath chamber and meant with everything she had. "I love you, Adil Kassar. I love you, and I'm going to have your children, and we're going to find a way through this. All of it. Together."

He kissed her then, slow and desperate, his mouth finding hers like she was air and he'd been drowning. She felt his hands move on her body, one still on her belly, the other sliding up her spine, and she pressed into him, her mouth opening under his, her tongue finding his, the taste of him filling her. She felt the twins flutter between them, a small movement that was almost a kick, and she felt him smile against her mouth, felt the laugh that moved through him, the sound low and rumbling and full of everything they'd been through.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her lips, his hands still on her body. "I love you too," he said, the words rough and raw, the thing he'd said once in a dusty farmhouse and meant with everything he had. "I love you too, Esme. And I'm going to protect you. Both of you. All of us. I'm going to find a way through this."

She looked at him in the moonlight, at the exhaustion in his eyes and the love that outshone it, at the man who'd carried her across half a kingdom and built a cradle with his own hands and stood watch every night so she could sleep. She felt the twins flutter, felt the swell of her belly against his hand, felt the weight of everything they still had to face—the council, the riders, the world that wanted to tear them apart.

But standing in the moonlit yard of a farmhouse at the end of the world, with his hand on her belly and his love in his eyes, she felt something she hadn't felt in weeks. She felt safe.

And she pulled him closer, refusing to let fear steal this moment too.

He lifted her without a word, his hands sliding beneath her thighs, and she let out a small gasp as her arms wrapped around his neck. The shift rode up her thighs, and she felt the cool night air against her skin before the heat of his chest pressed against her. He carried her across the yard with the same steady stride he used to cross a battlefield, and she felt the twins settle against her spine, the weight of them heavy and real between them.

She pressed her face into the hollow of his throat, breathing him in, feeling the thrum of his pulse beneath her lips. The door groaned as he shouldered it open, and then they were inside, the darkness of the farmhouse closing around them like a held breath. He didn't set her down. He stood in the middle of the room, holding her like she was something precious, and she felt his arms tighten around her.

"Where do you want me?" His voice was rough, low, and she heard the question beneath the question—where did she need him, what did she need from him, how could he be what she needed tonight.

"The bed." She pointed past his shoulder, toward the low bed in the corner where the shadows gathered thickest. "I want you to lie down with me. I want to feel you against me."

He crossed the room in four strides, and she felt the mattress give beneath them as he lowered her onto it, his body following hers down, his weight settling over her but not on her, always careful, always mindful of the swell of her belly. She reached up and pulled him down, her hands finding the back of his neck, drawing his mouth to hers.

The kiss was slow, deep, a homecoming. She felt his hands move on her body, sliding down her sides, finding the curve of her hip, the swell of her stomach. He traced the curve of her belly with his palm, a slow, reverent stroke, and she felt the twins answer with a flutter, a small kick that pressed against his hand.

"They know you're here," she whispered against his mouth. "They always know."

He made a sound low in his throat, something between a laugh and a groan, and she felt his hand slide lower, beneath the hem of her shift, his palm finding the bare warmth of her thigh. She felt the calluses rough against her skin, the heat of his hand as it moved higher, and she let her legs fall open for him, an invitation she didn't have to speak.

But then his fingers found the tender swell of her belly, and she felt him pause, felt the question in his touch. She looked up at him, at the worry in his dark eyes, at the way he held himself so still, like he was afraid of hurting her, of hurting them.

"It's okay," she said, her hand covering his. "It's okay. The midwife said it's safe. She said it's good for me to rest, but it's okay. I need you, Adil. I need to feel you."

The words hung between them, and she felt the shift in him, the restraint cracking, the soldier giving way to the man who loved her. His mouth found hers again, harder this time, hungrier, and she felt his hand move back down her thigh, his fingers finding the damp heat between her legs.

She gasped against his mouth as his fingers slid through her slickness, finding her swollen and ready, and she felt him groan against her lips. "You're so wet," he breathed. "So ready for me."

"I'm always ready for you." She arched into his hand, her hips pressing against his palm, and she felt his fingers circle her clit, slow and deliberate, drawing a whimper from her throat. "I've been ready since the night we left the palace. I've been needing you every night since."

His fingers moved faster, and she felt the heat building low in her belly, the familiar ache that only he could ease. But then a cramp seized her, sharp and sudden, and she gasped, her hand flying to her stomach, her body going rigid against the mattress.

"Esme?" His hand stilled, his face going pale in the moonlight. "Esme, what's wrong?"

She waited, her breath held, feeling the cramp ease, feeling the twins settle. "It's okay," she said, her voice shaky. "It's just—the midwife said this might happen. It's the twins, they're—" She winced as another cramp rolled through her, softer this time, but real. "They're low. They press on everything. It hurts sometimes."

He was off the bed in an instant, his hands hovering over her, his face a mask of barely controlled fear. "I'll get Sera. I'll—"

"No." She caught his wrist, her grip firm. "No. It's not labor. It's just the pain. It comes and goes. The midwife said it's normal, that the twins are growing, that my body is making room for them." She pulled him back down to the bed, her hand finding his face, cupping his jaw. "I'm okay. We're okay. I just need you to hold me for a moment."

He lowered himself beside her, his body curving around hers, his hand finding her belly, pressing against the swell. She felt the twins flutter, a small, insistent movement, and she felt him relax, just a fraction, the tension bleeding out of him as he felt them move.

"I hate this," he said, his voice muffled against her hair. "I hate that I can't fix it. I hate that I can't make it stop hurting you."

"You fix it by being here." She turned in his arms, facing him, her belly pressing against his. "You fix it by holding me. By letting me know I'm not alone in this." She took his hand and pressed it against her belly, right where the twins were moving. "Feel that? That's our son. And our daughter. They're here, and they're strong, and they're going to be fine. We're going to be fine."

He looked at her, his dark eyes searching her face, and she saw the fear still there, the worry that never fully left him. But she saw the love too, the thing that outshone the fear, and she pulled him closer, pressing her mouth to his.

The kiss deepened, and she felt his hand move on her body again, slower this time, gentler, mindful of the tender swell of her belly. His fingers found the hem of her shift, and he pushed it up, baring her thighs, baring the warm curve of her stomach, and she felt his mouth leave hers, trailing down her throat, down her chest, until his lips pressed against the swell of her belly.

She felt him kiss her there, a soft, reverent press of his mouth against the skin stretched tight over his children, and she felt tears prick her eyes. His hands moved over her belly, tracing the curve, feeling the movement beneath, and she felt the love in his touch, the wonder that never faded, the awe that she was carrying his children.

"I love you," he said against her skin, the words vibrating through her. "I love you, and I love them, and I'm going to protect you. All of you. I swear it."

She reached down and pulled him up, drawing his mouth back to hers, and she felt the shift in him, the hunger returning, the need that matched her own. His hand slid between her thighs again, and she felt his fingers find her slick and ready, and she moaned against his mouth as he slid one finger inside her.

"I need you inside me," she breathed. "I need to feel you."

He pulled back, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and she saw the question in them, the worry. "Are you sure? The midwife said—"

"The midwife said it's safe." She reached for the laces of his trousers, her fingers working them loose. "She said it's good for me, good for the babies. She said the stress of worrying is worse than anything else." She pushed his trousers down, her hand finding him hard and hot in her palm, and she felt him shudder at her touch. "I need you, Adil. I need to feel you inside me. I need to feel close to you."

He looked at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, and she saw the battle in him, the soldier warring with the man. Then something in him gave way, and he lowered himself over her, his weight on his forearms, his mouth finding hers.

She guided him to her entrance, and she felt him pause there, the head of his cock pressing against her slick heat, and she looked up at him, at the strain in his face, the control he was holding onto with everything he had.

"Slow," she whispered. "Slow, and gentle, and I'll tell you if it hurts."

He pushed inside her, slow and careful, and she felt herself stretch around him, felt the familiar fullness of him filling her. She gasped, her hands finding his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, and she felt him still, felt him wait, felt him give her time to adjust.

"Okay?" His voice was rough, strained, and she heard the effort it took him to hold still, to wait for her.

"Okay." She shifted her hips, feeling him move inside her, and she felt the pleasure building, warm and slow, replacing the ache of the cramps. "Move. Please. Move."

He began to move, slow and deep, his hips rocking against hers, and she felt the pleasure build with each thrust, the familiar rhythm of their bodies moving together. His hand found her belly, pressing against the swell, and she felt the twins flutter, a small movement that seemed to answer his touch.

"They feel you," she breathed. "They know you're here."

He made a sound low in his throat, and she felt his pace quicken, his thrusts deeper, and she felt the pleasure cresting, the heat building low in her belly, the familiar ache that only he could ease. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she felt him groan against her throat.

"I'm close," she breathed. "I'm so close."

"Come for me," he said, his voice rough and low. "Come for me, Esme. Let me feel you."

His hand found her clit, his thumb pressing against it, and she shattered, her body clenching around him, her cry swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her through it. She felt him follow, felt him shudder against her, felt him empty into her with a groan that sounded like her name.

He collapsed against her, careful, always careful, his weight on his forearms, his face pressed into her hair. She felt his breath ragged against her skin, felt his heart hammering against her chest, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him, feeling the aftershocks ripple through both of them.

But then the cramp came again, sharper this time, and she gasped, her hand flying to her belly. He was off her in an instant, his hands on her, his face pale.

"Esme." His voice was sharp, afraid. "Esme, what's wrong?"

She waited, her breath held, feeling the cramp ease, feeling the twins settle. "It's okay," she said, her voice shaky. "It's just—" She winced as another wave rolled through her. "It's the pain. It's been getting worse. The midwife said—"

"The midwife said what?" His hands were on her belly, his face close to hers, and she saw the fear in his eyes, the terror that he'd been holding at bay for weeks.

"She said the twins are positioned low," she said, her voice small. "She said there's a risk of—of early labor. She said I need to rest, to stay off my feet as much as I can. She said—" She swallowed, the tears pricking her eyes. "She said if the pain gets worse, if there's bleeding, I need to call for her immediately."

He was silent for a long moment, his hands still on her belly, and she saw the fear in his face, the thing he couldn't hide. Then he moved, carefully, gently, pulling her shift back down, covering her, and he gathered her into his arms, holding her against his chest.

"I'm going to get Sera," he said, his voice rough. "I'm going to bring her here, and she's going to examine you, and she's going to tell us what to do."

"Adil, it's the middle of the night—"

"I don't care." His jaw was set, his eyes hard. "I'm not going to lose you. I'm not going to lose them. I'd walk through fire to keep you safe, and I'll walk to the village and back if that's what it takes."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then he was gone, pulling on his trousers, grabbing his sword, moving toward the door. She watched him go, watched the moonlight catch his broad shoulders as he disappeared into the dark, and she pressed her hand to her belly, feeling the twins flutter.

The cramp came again, sharper, and she bit her lip against the pain, her eyes on the door where he'd vanished. The night was silent around her, the dog quiet, the wind still, and she lay alone in the low bed, waiting, hoping, praying that the twins would hold on, that the pain would ease, that he would come back with help.

The moon climbed higher, and she watched it through the cracked pane, her hand on her belly, feeling the small movements of her children, the proof that they were still there, still fighting, still holding on.

And she waited for him, the man who'd carried her across half a kingdom, the man who'd built a cradle with his own hands, the man who'd promised to protect her and their children with everything he had.

She waited, and she hoped, and she prayed that the dawn would bring light instead of loss.

The night stretched like a held breath. Esme lay in the low bed, her hand pressed to the swell of her belly, counting the minutes by the ache that came and went in slow, rolling waves. The moon had moved past the cracked pane, leaving the room in deeper shadow, and she watched the dark ceiling as if it might offer some answer. The twins moved, a restless flutter, and she whispered to them, nonsense words, promises she wasn't sure she could keep.

The sound of hooves reached her before the knock did—a single horse, ridden hard, slowing in the yard. She pushed herself up on her elbows, her heart slamming against her ribs, and then she heard his voice, low and rough, speaking to someone else. A woman's voice answered. Sera.

Esme let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding as the door swung open. Adil filled the frame first, his face drawn with exhaustion, and behind him Sera stepped inside, a leather bag clutched in her weathered hands. The midwife was a small woman, her grey hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes sharp and knowing in the lamplight Adil lit with shaking hands.

"Out," Sera said to Adil, not unkindly. "I need to examine her properly, and you'll hover like a mother hen. Go make tea. Boil water. Do something useful."

He looked at Esme, a question in his dark eyes, and she nodded. "Go. I'm fine. She's here now."

He left reluctantly, the door closing behind him, and Sera set her bag on the table, unpacking her instruments with practiced efficiency. Esme watched her lay out a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, a small metal speculum that glinted in the lamplight, and her mouth went dry.

"Nineteen weeks," Sera said, not a question. "You're further along than I thought you'd be when I last saw you. The babes have grown."

"They've grown a lot," Esme said, her voice small. "They move all the time now. I can feel them, kicking, turning. It's—" She paused, searching for the word. "It's wonderful. And terrifying."

Sera's mouth curved in a rare smile. "That's about right." She gestured to the bed. "Lie back. Let me see what we're working with."

Esme obeyed, her hands clasped over her belly as Sera's cool fingers found her pulse, her temperature, the curve of her stomach. The midwife pressed and probed, her face focused, her hands moving with the confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times. She measured the swell with a cloth tape, noted something on a scrap of paper, and then she paused, her fingers pressing deeper into Esme's lower belly.

"The babes are low," she said, her voice careful. "Lower than I'd like. And your cervix—" She withdrew her hand, her expression thoughtful. "I need to examine you internally. It'll be uncomfortable, but I need to know what we're dealing with."

Esme nodded, her throat tight, and Sera helped her out of the shift, guiding her onto her back with her knees bent. The metal speculum was cold, and Esme flinched as it entered her, her hands gripping the rough sheet beneath her.

"Breathe," Sera said. "Just breathe. I'm going to look, and then I'm going to tell you the truth."

Esme breathed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling the instrument move inside her, feeling Sera's fingers press and probe, feeling the ache that had been with her all night sharpen into something more focused. The twins moved, a frantic flutter, and she felt a sharp cramp roll through her, making her gasp.

"There," Sera said, withdrawing the instrument. "I see it."

Esme sat up, her hands flying to her belly. "What? What is it?"

Sera set the speculum aside, her face grave in the lamplight. "Your cervix is softening," she said, her voice low. "And it's starting to shorten. That's a sign that your body is preparing for labor—too early. Much too early."

Esme felt the blood drain from her face. "What does that mean?"

"It means there's a real chance of premature birth," Sera said, not mincing words. "The babes are positioned low, and your body is already starting to make room for them. If we're not careful, you could go into labor in the next few weeks. And at nineteen weeks, they wouldn't survive."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Esme felt her hands shake, felt the tears prick her eyes, felt the twins move inside her as if they knew, as if they were fighting already, and she pressed her palms against the swell, trying to hold them in, trying to keep them safe.

"What can we do?" Her voice cracked. "What can I do?"

Sera's hand found hers, warm and steady. "You rest. Completely. No standing for long periods, no lifting, no stress. I'll give you a tonic to help relax your womb, and I want you to drink it three times a day. You stay in this bed, or close to it, until the babes are ready to come."

"How long?"

"As long as it takes." Sera's eyes were kind, but unyielding. "Every week you carry them is a week they grow stronger. We need to get you to at least thirty-six weeks. Ideally longer. But that means you do nothing. Nothing at all."

Esme nodded, her throat too tight for words. She thought of the farmhouse, the fields, the world outside that kept moving while she lay still. She thought of Adil, standing watch every night, and the new weight that would settle on his shoulders now. She thought of the twins, their small hearts beating inside her, and she felt a fierce, desperate love that drowned out everything else.

"I'll do it," she said. "Whatever it takes. I'll do it."

Sera squeezed her hand. "Good. Now let me examine the rest of you, and then we'll get you settled."

The examination continued—Sera's hands moving over her breasts, checking for changes, her fingers pressing against her belly, feeling the position of the twins, her instruments measuring and probing. Esme lay still, letting herself be handled, letting the midwife see every part of her, the body that was no longer quite her own but a vessel for the lives inside her.

"Your breasts are fuller," Sera said, her hands cupping them, pressing gently. "That's good. That means your body is preparing to feed them. And your skin—" She traced a finger along the dark line that ran from Esme's navel to her pelvis. "The linea nigra. Normal. The babes are taking what they need."

She moved lower, her fingers pressing against the tender mound between Esme's thighs, checking the softness, the readiness, and Esme felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks. It was one thing to be examined by a midwife, another to feel so exposed, so vulnerable, with the memory of Adil's hands still fresh on her skin.

"Everything looks good," Sera said, withdrawing. "The babes are strong, their heartbeats are steady. But your body is tired, and it's telling you to slow down. We need to listen to it."

She helped Esme sit up, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, and then she moved to the table, mixing a dark liquid from a small bottle into a cup of water. "Drink this. It'll help with the cramping and calm your womb."

Esme took the cup, her hands shaking, and drank. The tonic was bitter, earthy, and she grimaced, but she forced it down, feeling the warmth spread through her, feeling the ache in her belly ease, just a fraction.

Sera packed her instruments, her movements efficient, and then she paused, her hand on the door. "I'll come back in three days. If the pain gets worse, if there's any bleeding, send Adil for me immediately. Day or night." She looked at Esme, her eyes sharp. "Do you understand?"

"Yes." Esme's voice was steadier now. "I understand."

Sera nodded, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her, and Esme was alone with the weight of everything she'd just learned.

The door opened again a moment later, and Adil came in, his face tight with worry. He crossed to the bed in three strides, his hands finding hers, his eyes searching her face. "What did she say? Is everything—"

"The babies are fine," Esme said, and she watched the relief wash over his face. "They're strong. Their heartbeats are good." She paused, the words catching in her throat. "But there's a risk. My body is—it's starting to prepare for labor. Too early. She said I have to rest. Completely. No standing, no lifting, no stress. She gave me a tonic to drink, and she's coming back in three days."

He was silent for a long moment, his hands tightening on hers, and she saw the fear in his eyes, the thing he couldn't hide. Then he pulled her into his arms, careful, always careful, his face pressing into her hair, and she felt him shake.

"I'll do everything," he said, his voice rough. "I'll do everything. I'll cook, I'll clean, I'll stand watch. You just rest. You just stay in this bed and keep them safe, and I'll handle the rest."

She held him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, feeling the love that outshone the fear, and she nodded. "Okay. I'll rest. I'll do whatever it takes."

He pulled back, his dark eyes meeting hers, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Good. Now, is there anything you need? Anything at all?"

She thought about it, the words rising unbidden, a craving that had been building for days. "Strawberries."

He blinked. "What?"

"Strawberries." She felt her cheeks flush. "I've been craving them. The last few days, I can't stop thinking about them. The taste, the smell. I know it's silly, but—"

"It's not silly." His voice was soft, and she saw the smile that tugged at his mouth, the first real smile she'd seen in days. "It's not silly at all. I'll find you strawberries. I'll ride to the village, I'll search every market, I'll—"

"Adil." She laughed, a small, surprised sound. "It's the middle of the night. The markets are closed."

"Then I'll find a farmer. I'll knock on every door in the village until someone sells me strawberries." He was already moving, pulling on his boots, grabbing his sword. "You rest. You stay in this bed. And when I come back, I'll have strawberries."

She watched him go, the door closing behind him, and she lay back against the pillow, her hand on her belly, feeling the twins flutter. The craving was absurd, a silly thing in the face of everything else, but it was also something else—a sign that her body was still fighting, still growing, still doing what it needed to do to bring these babies into the world.

The nausea rose then, sudden and sharp, and she turned her head, gagging into the basin Sera had left by the bed. The tonic churned in her stomach, and she retched, the sour taste flooding her mouth, her eyes watering. She'd thought the morning sickness had passed, but it had returned with a vengeance, triggered by the tonic, by the stress, by the fear.

She lay back, trembling, her hand pressed to her belly, and she felt the twins move, a small, insistent kick. "I know," she whispered. "I know you're there. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard."

The door opened, and Adil was there, a basket in his hand, his face flushed with exertion. "I found some," he said, his voice triumphant. "Old Marta at the edge of the village had a patch in her garden. She said—" He stopped, seeing her face, the basin, the tears on her cheeks. "Esme. What happened?"

"The nausea," she said, her voice shaky. "It came back. The tonic—" She gagged again, and he was at her side in an instant, his hand on her back, his voice low and soothing.

"It's okay. It's okay. Just breathe." He waited until the spasm passed, then he helped her sit up, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. "The strawberries are here. Do you think you can eat one? Just a small bite?"

She looked at the basket, at the bright red fruit nestled in the straw, and the craving surged, overpowering the nausea. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I think I can."

He picked one, plump and ripe, and held it to her lips. She bit into it, the sweetness flooding her mouth, the taste so vivid it made her eyes water. She chewed, swallowed, and the nausea eased, just a fraction, replaced by the simple, overwhelming pleasure of the fruit.

"More," she said, and he fed her another, then another, until the basket was half empty and her stomach was quiet.

He set the basket aside, his hand finding her belly, pressing against the swell. "Better?"

"Better." She leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, the steadiness of his presence. "Thank you. For the strawberries. For everything."

"I'd bring you the moon if you asked," he said, his voice rough. "I'd bring you the stars. I'd—"

"I know." She pressed her mouth to his, soft and quick. "I know."

He helped her lie back, arranging the pillows, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The twins moved, a gentle flutter, and she felt them settle, felt the cramping ease, felt the tonic and the strawberries and the love all working together to hold her steady.

"Rest," he said, his hand on her belly, his eyes on her face. "I'll be right here. I'll watch over you. Both of you. All of us."

She nodded, her eyes growing heavy, the exhaustion finally catching up with her. She felt him settle beside her, his body curving around hers, his hand still on her belly, and she let herself drift, the taste of strawberries still on her tongue, the flutter of her children still beneath her palm.

She dreamed of a garden, full of light, and two small children running through the rows of strawberry plants, their laughter bright as the sun. She dreamed of Adil beside her, his hand in hers, his eyes full of the love he'd finally given her words for. She dreamed of a future where the fear was gone, where the danger had passed, where they were safe.

And when she woke, the dawn was breaking through the cracked pane, and Adil was still there, his hand on her belly, his eyes on her face, watching over her like he'd promised.

The nausea rose again, but this time she was ready. She reached for the basin, and when it passed, she reached for a strawberry, and she ate it slowly, savoring the sweetness, feeling the twins move in answer, feeling the hope that had taken root in her chest grow a little stronger.

Nineteen weeks. The twins were strong. Her body was tired, but it was fighting. And she was not alone.

She looked at Adil, at the exhaustion in his eyes and the love that outshone it, and she smiled. "I think I'm ready for another strawberry."