Nikolai
Two Years Later
I stand in the doorway of the nursery and watch my wife make a fool of herself.
Claire sits a rocking chair with our son in her lap, holding a picture book and doing voices. Ridiculous voices. The dragon sounds like a grumpy old man — which she claims is based on me — and the princess sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Vasek after too much wine.
Our son, Prince Alexei William of House Draven, giggles so hard he can barely breathe.
Our son is eighteen months old now, with his mother’s golden hair and my dark eyes.
His starter fangs came in early, much earlier than expected, and Claire spent a week convinced she was doing something wrong until Marta assured her that some babies are simply eager.
“He’s advanced,” our nanny said with a proud smile. “He takes after his father.”
I’m not sure fang development is genetic, but I wasn’t about to argue.
Marta sits in the corner now, folding tiny clothes with the efficiency of someone who’s done this for decades.
She’s an older Krovenian woman, a grandmother several times over, with silver-streaked hair and warm eyes that remind me of Mrs. Vasek.
Claire adores her. When we were interviewing nannies, Claire rejected three perfectly qualified candidates before Marta walked in, took one look at baby Alexei, and said, “What a serious little prince. I think we’ll be great friends. ”
Alexei had smiled at her. Actually smiled. He doesn’t smile at many people.
Claire hired her on the spot.
“And then the dragon said—” Claire drops her voice to a ridiculous growl. “I don’t like visitors.”
Alexei shrieks with laughter and claps his pudgy hands.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying very hard to maintain my dignity. “I don’t sound like that.”
Claire looks up, her eyes sparkling. “You absolutely sound like that. Ask anyone.”
“I’m the King. No one would dare agree with you.”
“Marta, does my husband sound like that when he’s grumpy?”
Marta doesn’t look up from her folding. “I’m afraid I cannot comment, Your Majesty. I value my employment.”
Claire grins triumphantly. “That’s a yes.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I can’t help it. Two years of marriage and she still gets under my skin in the best possible way. She still argues with me and calls me out when I’m being unreasonable. And she still looks at me with love in her eyes on a daily basis.
I never expected this any of this.
I think about my parents sometimes, how they had the Blood Calling too, how rare that was among royals.
They would have loved Claire. My mother would have adored her sharp tongue and kind heart.
My father would have respected how she stood up to the Council, how she won over an entire kingdom just by being herself.
Both Claire and I lost our parents too young. It’s something we understood about each other from the beginning, that particular loneliness, that hollow space where family should be. But we’re building something new now. Something that’s ours.
“Papa.” The book is over and Alexei reaches for me, his small arms stretched out, his dark eyes fixed on my face.
My chest tightens. I cross the room and lift my son from Claire’s lap. He’s warm and solid in my arms, smelling of baby soap and the lavender oil Marta uses. His tiny hand pats my cheek, right where my jaw meets my throat.
“Papa,” he says again, satisfied.
“That’s right.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “I’m here.”
Claire watches us with soft eyes. In moments like this, I see the fourteen-year-old girl who put a poster on her wall and dreamed of meeting a vampire prince.
I see the woman who walked into a blizzard to save me from herself.
I see my queen, the female who recently completed her master’s degree, and the mother of my child.
I will never deserve her, but I will spend every day trying.
Marta rises and crosses to us, arms outstretched. “Come now, little prince. Time for sleep.”
Alexei goes to her willingly, his head already drooping against her shoulder. He’s fighting it, eyes fluttering, but he’s losing the battle.
“Goodnight, my love,” Claire whispers, pressing a kiss to his golden hair.
I brush my thumb across his cheek. “Sleep well, son.”
Marta carries him to his crib, humming softly, and Claire and I slip out of the nursery.
We walk the corridor toward our chambers, her hand in mine.
“Derek called today,” she says.
“And?”
“He asked about his nephew again.” A smile tugs at her lips.
“Progress.”
“Real progress.” She squeezes my hand. “He held Alexei when he visited last month. Did I tell you that? He actually held him. And Alexei grabbed his nose and Derek laughed. Actually laughed, Nikolai. Not that bitter, angry laugh he’s had for years. A real one.”
I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “He’s coming around.”
“He’s trying. That’s all I ever wanted.” She’s quiet for a moment.
“He still hasn’t fully let go of the conspiracy stuff.
But he’s listening now. He’s asking questions instead of just..
. ranting. And I think I’ve gotten him convinced he really does need to start therapy to talk about what happened in his breakup with his fiancé. ”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, I think so too.”
We reach our chambers. I open the door and usher her inside, then close it behind us. We’re in the bedroom part of our enormous suite, which opens to the sitting room and beyond that to my study, which is now our study, with an extra desk for my Queen.
The fire burns low in the hearth in the sitting room, casting warm shadows across the room. I glance over at the thick rug in front of the fireplace where I first claimed her, and I get an idea.
Claire crosses to the vanity and starts pulling pins from her hair. It tumbles down around her shoulders in golden waves, catching the firelight.
She catches my eye in the mirror. “What?”
“Just looking at my wife.”
“You’ve been looking at your wife for two years.”
“And I’ll look at her until our days run into time.”
Her expression softens. She turns to face me, and something in her eyes makes my heart stutter.
“Nikolai.” She stands and crosses to me, takes my hand. “I have something to tell you.”
She presses my palm against her belly.
For a moment, I don’t understand and then I feel the slight curve beneath my hand that wasn’t there a few weeks ago.
“Claire...”
“Marta suspected before I did. She’s already knitting.”
Another child. Our family, growing.
“Are you happy?” she whispers.
Words are inadequate for what I’m feeling, so I kiss her instead, pouring everything I feel into the press of my lips against hers.
When we break apart, she’s breathless. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she manages.
And then her fingers tug at my shirt, pulling it free from my trousers. “Nikolai,” she breathes against my mouth. “I need you. The pregnancy hormones are...I’ve been like this all day. I’m so sensitive, everything feels... I need you to touch me.”
A growl rumbles in my chest. I remember this from her first pregnancy. How needy she becomes and how responsive.
I take her hand and guide her to the thick rug in front of the fireplace where it all began.
I lower her down. The fire crackles beside us, casting warm light across her skin as I undress her slowly. Button by button. Layer by layer. Until she’s bare beneath me, golden and glowing and mine.
My mark is still visible on her throat. The pale scar where I claimed her two years ago. I trace it with my tongue and she arches into me, gasping.
“I’ll take care of you,” I murmur against her skin. “I’ll always take care of you.”
“Please...”
I press a kiss against the small bump of her stomach. Then my face is between her open thighs.
And I take my time, giving her all the pleasure she needs.