The cramp hit her like a fist from inside—low and brutal, doubling her over before she could draw breath. Esme's hand flew to the swell of her belly, fingers splaying wide as if she could hold whatever was tearing loose. The bed frame groaned beneath her. Somewhere in the room, glass clinked—Adil's hand had gone still around the tonic bottle.

Then the warmth came. A gush, sudden and wet, soaking through the linen beneath her thighs. She felt it spread, felt the mattress grow damp against her skin, and for one frozen second she couldn't make herself look down.

"Adil."

His name came out thin, almost a question. He was already moving, crossing the room in two strides, but his eyes weren't on her face. They were fixed on the dark stain blooming across the sheets, spreading like ink through water, and the bottle in his hand hung forgotten at his side.

"Sera said to rest," Esme whispered. Her voice shook. "She said if I rested—"

"You've been resting."

"But it's not stopping."

The words came out wet. She could feel it still coming, a slow, relentless seep that wouldn't end, and beneath her palm the twins fluttered—a weak, faint movement that should have been a comfort and wasn't. It felt like a goodbye.

Adil dropped the bottle. It hit the floorboards with a dull thunk, tonic splashing across his boots, and he didn't notice. He knelt at the bedside, both hands pressing flat against her belly, his face gone the color of old ash.

"How much blood?" His voice was rough, controlled, the voice he used in battle. But his hands were trembling.

"I don't know. It's—" She looked down at last, at the dark red soaking through the white linen, and her throat closed. "It's a lot. It's too much."

"Sera." He said it like a command, already turning toward the door. "I'll fetch her. She's three miles—"

"No." Esme caught his wrist, her grip fierce despite the weakness dragging at her limbs. "Adil, if you leave and something happens—"

"Nothing is going to happen." He said it flatly, like saying it hard enough would make it true. His hand covered hers, squeezed. "I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

"And if I'm bleeding out on this bed while you're running through the woods?" Her voice cracked. "What then?"

He stared at her. The silence stretched, thick with everything neither of them would say. Outside, a bird called once, sharp and lonely. The blood kept coming.

"Then I'll carry you," he said finally. "I'll carry you to her if I have to."

"You can't carry me three miles."

"Watch me."

He was already pulling away, already reaching for his boots, and Esme felt something crack open in her chest—not the slow, creeping fear she'd been holding at bay for weeks, but something sharper. Something final.

"Adil."

He stopped. Turned. His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment he was just a man, stripped of his captain's discipline, his soldier's mask—just a man who was terrified of losing her.

"If you go," she said, "and I lose them—" Her hand pressed harder against her belly. "I need you here. I need you to be here."

He crossed back to her in two steps. Knelt. Pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm and ragged against her skin.

"You're not going to lose them."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." His hand found hers on her belly, laced their fingers together. "I know how strong you are. I've watched you carry this—carry us—for twenty weeks. You're not stopping now."

"What if my body doesn't get a choice?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, very softly, "Then I'll be here. Whatever happens. I'll be here."

Esme closed her eyes. The tears came then, hot and silent, sliding down her cheeks into the hollow of his throat. She felt him hold her, felt his arms come around her with a gentleness that belied the strength in them, and she let herself be held.

The blood kept coming.

Minutes passed—or hours, she couldn't tell. The light through the cracked pane shifted from gold to white to gold again. Adil's hand never left hers. He talked to her in a low, steady voice, telling her about the cradle he'd built, about the way the twins had kicked against his palm that morning, about the strawberries he'd found growing wild by the creek and the pie he was going to make her when this was over.

"A pie," she managed, her voice weak but steadier than before. "You don't know how to make a pie."

"I'll learn."

"From who?"

"Old Marta. She'll teach me." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "She'll teach me, and I'll make you the best damn strawberry pie this kingdom has ever seen."

Esme laughed—a broken, watery sound that turned into a sob. "You're going to poison me."

"Wouldn't dare. You're the queen."

"Some queen." She looked down at her belly, at the bloodstained sheets, at the wreckage of her body. "Can't even keep her own children safe."

"Hey." His voice sharpened. "Look at me."

She did. His eyes were dark and fierce, burning with a intensity that made her breath catch.

"You are the strongest person I have ever known," he said. "You have carried twins through flight and fear and a kingdom that wants to tear you apart. You have survived everything this world has thrown at you. And you are going to survive this."

"You can't promise that."

"I'm not promising. I'm telling you." He took her face in his hands, rough palms cradling her cheeks. "You are going to survive this. Those babies are going to survive this. And I am going to be right here, holding your hand, until they do."

Esme stared at him. Something in her chest loosened—not the fear, not the dread, but the loneliness. The sense of being alone in her own body, fighting a battle no one else could see.

She wasn't alone. She hadn't been alone for months.

"I love you," she said. The words came out raw, unguarded, stripped of everything but truth. "I love you so much it terrifies me."

His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I know."

"I mean it."

"I know you do." He leaned in, pressed his lips to hers—soft, tender, achingly gentle. "I love you too. I love you more than I've ever loved anything. More than my sword. More than my duty. More than my own life."

Esme's breath caught. "You've never said—"

"I know." He kissed her again. "I should have said it sooner. I should have said it every day since the first time I saw you across the throne room and knew I was ruined."

"Ruined?"

"Ruined." He smiled, a small, crooked thing that made her heart ache. "I was a soldier. I had a code. I had discipline. And then you looked at me with those amber eyes, and I forgot every single word of it."

Esme laughed—a real laugh this time, bright and surprised. "I did not—"

"You did." He kissed her forehead. "You ruined me. And I've been grateful for it every day since."

The blood was still coming. She could feel it, a slow, steady seep that hadn't slowed or stopped. But for a moment—just a moment—she forgot to be afraid.

Then the cramp hit again.

It was different this time. Sharper. Lower. A pain that twisted through her like a blade, and she gasped, her hand flying to her belly as her back arched off the mattress.

"Esme." Adil's voice was sharp. "Esme, look at me."

She couldn't. The pain was too much, a white-hot wave that crested and broke and kept coming, and she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before—a low, animal keening that seemed to come from somewhere outside her body.

"I need you to breathe." His hand was on her face, turning her toward him. "Breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out."

She tried. The breath came in ragged gasps, catching in her throat. The pain crested again, and she felt something shift inside her—something she couldn't name, something that made the blood gush hotter, wetter, faster.

"Adil." Her voice was thin, reedy. "Something's wrong. Something's really wrong."

"I know." His face was pale, but his voice was steady. "I'm going to get Sera. I'm going to run the whole way, and I'm going to bring her back, and we're going to fix this."

"Don't leave me."

"I have to."

"No." She grabbed his wrist, her grip fierce despite the weakness dragging at her. "Don't leave me. If I'm going to—" She couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't make herself say the words.

"You're not going to—"

"If I am," she said, "I don't want to be alone."

He stared at her. The silence stretched, thick and terrible, and Esme could see the war in his eyes—the soldier who knew every second mattered, and the man who couldn't bear to leave her.

"Sera's three miles away," he said. "I can make it in twenty minutes. Less, if I run. I'll be back before—"

"Before what? Before I bleed out?" She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No. Stay. Please. Stay with me."

He closed his eyes. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble.

"If I stay," he said slowly, "and something happens to them—"

"Then we'll face it together." She squeezed his hand. "Whatever happens. Together."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and climbed onto the bed beside her, gathering her into his arms with a gentleness that made her chest ache.

"Together," he said.

She pressed her face into his shoulder, breathing him in—leather and woodsmoke and the faint salt of sweat. The blood kept coming. The twins kept fluttering, weak and faint, like birds testing their wings. And Adil held her, his hand on her belly, his lips against her hair.

The sun climbed higher. The light through the cracked pane shifted. And Esme lay in his arms, waiting for the pain to end—one way or another.

The warmth finally slowed. Esme felt it first as a lessening, then a stop—the terrible seep that had soaked the linen going still against her thighs. She lay rigid in Adil's arms, afraid to breathe, afraid that any movement would start it again.

He felt it too. His hand, which had been pressed flat against her belly, went very still, and she heard him exhale—a long, shaky breath that sounded like a prayer finally answered.

"It stopped," she whispered. She didn't dare believe it. "Adil, I think it stopped."

He didn't answer. He shifted, easing her onto her back with a tenderness that made her chest ache, and looked down at the sheets. The stain was dark and wide, but it wasn't spreading anymore. The edges had gone crusty, beginning to dry in the warm air.

"It stopped," he repeated. His voice cracked on the second word.

Esme's hand found his, gripping hard enough to hurt. "The babies. Are they—"

She couldn't finish. She pressed her palm to her belly instead, waiting, praying, and then she felt it—a small, determined kick, right against her fingers. Then another, weaker but unmistakable.

"They're moving." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Adil, they're moving."

He laughed—a broken, wet sound—and pressed his forehead to her belly, his shoulders shaking. "I know. I can feel them." His voice was muffled against her skin. "I can feel them."

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The sun poured through the cracked pane, warm and golden, and Esme lay with her hand tangled in Adil's hair, feeling the twins flutter against his cheek like they were saying hello.

Then she felt something else. A cramp—but different from before. Not the sharp, tearing pain that had doubled her over. This was a deep, dull ache, settling into her lower back and spreading outward, like a muscle that had been clenched too long finally letting go.

She winced, and Adil's head came up immediately.

"What is it?"

"My back." She shifted, trying to find a position that didn't hurt. "It's been hurting since—" She stopped, realizing it had been hurting for a while. She'd been too focused on the blood to notice. "It's just sore. From lying here."

He was already moving, easing her onto her side with a gentleness that belied his size. "Roll over."

"Adil, you don't have to—"

"Roll over."

She did, and his hands found her back—broad, calloused palms pressing into the curve of her spine. He worked slowly, carefully, starting at the base of her shoulders and moving down in firm, circular strokes.

"Here?"

His thumb dug into a knot near her waist, and Esme let out a sound she hadn't meant to make—a low, breathy moan that had nothing to do with pain.

"There," she managed. "Right there."

He worked the knot with his thumb, then flattened his palm and pressed, easing the tension out of the muscle in long, slow strokes. Esme's eyes fluttered closed. The ache in her back was still there, but it was softening, loosening, melting under his hands.

"You're good at this," she murmured.

"Years of armor." His voice was low, rough. "You learn to work out the knots yourself, or you learn to suffer."

"And which did you choose?"

"Suffered. Until now." His hands moved lower, finding another knot at the base of her spine, and she felt his thumbs press in with just the right amount of pressure. "You're carrying a lot of tension here."

"I've been a little tense." She managed a weak laugh. "What with the bleeding and the hiding and the—" She broke off as his thumbs found a particularly tender spot. "Gods, that's good."

He worked in silence for a while, his hands moving with a patience she hadn't known he possessed. The soldier who moved with controlled stillness in the throne room, who could cut a man down without blinking, was now pressing the ache out of her lower back like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And it was, she realized. To him, right now, it was.

His hands moved from her back to her sides, stroking up along her ribs with a gentleness that made her shiver. She felt him pause, felt his fingers brush against the underside of her breast—not grabbing, not demanding. Just touching. Just feeling.

"Your breasts are fuller," he said quietly. "They've been fuller for a while."

Esme's breath caught. "Sera said it's the pregnancy. They're—" She stopped, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "They're preparing."

"Preparing."

"For the babies. For feeding them."

He made a low sound in his throat—not quite a word, not quite a groan. His hand cupped her breast through the thin fabric of her shift, his thumb brushing across the nipple, and Esme felt it tighten under his touch.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"No." Her voice came out thinner than she'd intended. "It's just—sensitive. Everything's sensitive."

"Show me."

She didn't understand at first. Then he eased the shift off her shoulder, baring her breast to the warm air, and she understood.

His hand was rough against the softness of her skin, calloused and warm. He cupped the weight of her breast in his palm, and she felt the ache that had been building in her back shift, settle, transform into something else entirely.

"You're beautiful," he said. "You've always been beautiful. But this—" His thumb traced the curve of her breast, the darker skin of her areola. "This is different. This is—" He stopped, searching for the word. "More."

Esme's eyes stung. "More?"

"More everything." He leaned down, pressed his lips to the swell of her breast, and she felt the kiss like a brand. "More than I deserve. More than I ever thought I'd have."

His mouth closed over her nipple, and Esme gasped. The sensation was different than it had been before the pregnancy—sharper, more intense, a direct line from her breast to somewhere deep in her belly. She felt herself arch into him, felt her hand come up to tangle in his hair.

"Adil—"

He sucked gently, and the ache in her back dissolved into something else entirely. Her hips shifted against the sheets, and she felt the warmth between her legs that had nothing to do with blood.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand slid down her side, over the swell of her belly—pausing there, pressing gently, feeling the twins flutter against his palm—and then lower, over her hip, his fingers brushing against the inside of her thigh.

"Are you—" He stopped. "Is it safe?"

Esme's heart was pounding. "Sera said rest. She said no—" She swallowed. "She didn't say anything about this."

His hand stilled on her thigh. "I don't want to hurt you. Or them."

"You won't." She caught his hand, guided it higher. "I need this. I need you. I've been so scared, Adil. I've been so scared, and I just—" Her voice cracked. "I need to feel something that isn't fear."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he leaned down and kissed her—deep, slow, thorough—and she felt the tension drain out of her body like water.

His hand moved between her thighs, and she was already wet—slick and warm and aching. He made a low sound against her mouth when he felt it, and she felt his cock harden against her hip.

"You're sure?" he asked against her lips.

"I'm sure." She reached down, found the laces of his breeches. "I need you inside me. I need to feel you—" She stopped, her cheeks flushing. "I need to feel close to you."

He helped her with the laces, his hands trembling slightly, and she felt his cock spring free—hard and thick and hot against her thigh. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slowly, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.

"Esme." Her name came out like a prayer. "If we do this—"

"We're doing this." She guided him to her entrance, felt the head of his cock press against her slick heat. "I need you. Please."

He pushed in slowly—so slowly, so carefully, his eyes locked on hers. She felt herself stretch around him, felt the familiar fullness that she'd craved for weeks, and she let out a sound that was half sob, half moan.

"Okay?" His voice was strained.

"Yes." She pulled him deeper. "Yes. Don't stop."

He moved with excruciating care, each thrust slow and shallow, his hand never leaving her belly. She felt the twins flutter against his palm, and he stilled for a moment, a look of wonder crossing his face.

"They're moving," he whispered.

"They know." She laughed—a breathless, broken sound. "They know you're here."

He kissed her, and she felt him begin to move again—deeper now, harder, but still careful, still watching her face for any sign of pain. There was none. Only the ache of her body finally getting what it had been craving for weeks, the tension of fear and flight and hiding dissolving under the steady rhythm of his hips.

"I love you," she breathed against his mouth. "I love you. I love you."

"I know." His voice was rough, ragged. "I love you too. I love you so much—" He broke off, his hips stuttering, and she felt him press deeper, felt herself clench around him. "Esme."

She came with a sound she didn't recognize—a high, keening cry that she muffled against his shoulder. He followed a moment later, his body shuddering against hers, and she felt him spill inside her, hot and deep.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The sun poured through the cracked pane. The twins fluttered, quiet and content. And Esme lay with Adil still inside her, his weight a warm, familiar comfort, his breath ragged against her neck.

"I love you," he said again, softer this time. "I'm going to say it every day for the rest of my life. I'm going to make up for every day I didn't say it."

Esme smiled against his skin. "I'm going to hold you to that."

He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips—soft, lingering kisses that made her heart ache. Then he eased out of her, careful and gentle, and settled beside her on the narrow bed, pulling her into his arms with her head on his chest.

His hand found her belly again, resting there like it belonged. The twins kicked against his palm, one-two, a tiny rhythm that felt like a heartbeat.

"They're strong," he said. "They're going to be fighters."

"Like their father."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very softly, "I'm going to find Sera. I'm going to bring her back, and she's going to check you and the babies, and then—" He stopped.

"And then?"

"And then I'm going to make you that strawberry pie."

Esme laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised. "You still remember that?"

"I remember everything." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I remember the first time I saw you across the throne room. I remember the first time you looked at me like I was more than just a soldier. I remember every single moment since."

Her eyes stung. "Adil."

"I'm going to take care of you," he said. "I'm going to take care of you and our babies, and I'm going to give you the life you deserve. I don't care what the council says. I don't care what the kingdom says. You're mine, Esme. You've been mine since the moment I saw you."

She looked up at him—at his dark eyes, his sharp jaw, the stubble that shadowed his cheeks. He was a soldier. A fugitive. A man who had given up everything to be with her.

And she loved him more than she'd ever loved anything.

"I'm yours," she said. "I've always been yours."

He kissed her again, slow and deep, and she felt the last of the fear finally let go. The blood had stopped. The babies were moving. And for the first time in weeks, Esme believed—truly believed—that they were going to make it.

Then, outside, she heard it: the sound of hooves on the hard-packed dirt of the farmyard. Multiple horses. Coming fast.

Adil's hand went still on her belly. His eyes met hers, and she saw the soldier snap back into place—the mask sliding down, the stillness settling over his body like armor.

"Stay here," he said. "Don't move. Don't make a sound."

He was on his feet before she could answer, reaching for his sword, his movements silent and sure. The horses were closer now, and she could hear voices—low, urgent, familiar.

Esme pressed her hand to her belly, feeling the twins flutter against her palm, and held her breath.

The door burst open, and Tomas stood in the doorway, his face pale and streaked with sweat.

"They found you," he gasped. "The council's riders. They're coming. They're already in the valley."