The winter sun cast a soft glow through the frost-covered windows as I sat by the fire in our private sitting room, my hands resting on the small but distinct swell of my belly. Four months along now, and each day brought new wonder.
Alaric entered the room, his footsteps familiar and comforting. He carried a small silver tray with my favorite chamomile tea, prepared exactly as I liked it—with a touch of honey.
"How are my loves this afternoon?" he asked, setting the tray beside me before kneeling to place a gentle kiss on my stomach.
"We're well," I replied, running my fingers through his dark hair. "Though your child seems determined to make me crave the strangest combinations of food."
He laughed, rising to sit beside me. "Alistair mentioned something about pickled beets with chocolate sauce at midnight."
"He wasn't supposed to tell you about that!" I felt heat rise to my cheeks.
