Nila
Three Years Later...
“GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT, DON’T let the bed bugs bite.”
The squeal echoed merrily around the room as Jethro blew raspberries on the belly of our child. Our firstborn. Part Weaver, part Hawk.
The past few years had gone by so fast. We became a true family—working together, loving together, learning and evolving and laughing.
My pregnancy had been easy. Thanks to my fitness from running, I remained supple and able to work until the day I delivered. Jethro would often find me in the Weaver quarters, sewing and sketching with my belly ballooning as the days stretched on.
He never told me to stop. He supported whatever I wanted to do. He held my hand when I walked the estate and commandeered the kitchen at all hours to concoct my ridiculous cravings.
He absolutely doted on me, and I fell deeper into love with him.
I hadn’t known there were so many layers to love.
Sweet and sparkling then lusty and desiring, evolving into bone-deep and endless as the years slipped by.
And the longer we lived together, the more we became soul-mates in every sense of the word.
He knew my thoughts without me verbalising.
I knew his concerns without him having to speak. We became in-tune with body language and heart-code...listening with more than just ears.
The further I progressed in my pregnancy, the more my father visited.
His fear for my health grew until I resembled a blimp, soothing the scars of our past. He begged for the right to help decorate the nursery and almost singlehandedly bought London out of every nappy, cuddly toy, and cute baby clothes.
My twin was less impressed. He ribbed me constantly of the weight I’d gained—taunting me like a brother was allowed.
On the nights he came to visit, he’d pat his washboard stomach and poke my humongous one, laughing good-naturedly.
He even joked he’d buy me a few lessons with a personal trainer once I’d popped to get back into shape.
Jethro had not been happy. His eyes flashed with jealousy as Vaughn played up the angle of some beefed-up jock helping me stretch and train.
The night had ended with drinks for the boys and giggles for me.
I’d never been so contented.
And the day I’d given birth had once again changed my life. I’d been terrified—not that I told Jethro. My heart bucked and the fear of dying in labour stole all enjoyment of bringing life into the world.
But Jethro had been my prince, keeping me anchored, rubbing my back when vertigo struck and driving me calmly to the private hospital we’d arranged for the delivery.
The birth hadn’t gone perfectly. I’d been in labour for twenty-four hours. The baby had turned the night before and faced the wrong way. An emergency caesarean had to take place after Jethro roared for the doctors to take away my pain.
For every one of my contractions, Jethro felt it. He sweated beside me. He trembled in sympathy. He almost threw up when the agony threatened to rip me apart.
But when the first screams of our child shredded the operating theatre, Jethro had slammed to his knees. His shoulders quaked in silent sobs as he let himself feel another conscience for the first time.
Not mine.
Not the doctors and nurses.
Our baby.
His.
Our son.
The moment the doctor cleaned up the newborn and swaddled him in Jethro’s arms, he’d irrevocably changed. He became more than lord and master of Hawksridge. He became more than lover and friend.
He became a father. A protector. A single piece in a jigsaw of never-ending history. The look on his face when he stared into the eyes of his heir fisted my heart until I couldn’t breathe.
It’d been the singular most awe-inspiring moment of my life.
And I’d done it to him.
We’d done it together.
We’d created the squalling new life wriggling in his embrace.
He’d found his peace.
His centre.
Our son cooed as I brushed his bronze-black curls off his cherub cheeks.
To begin with, I’d been terrified of making a mistake—of being the worst mother imaginable.
But once I returned home to the Hall, the cooks and cleaners all came to welcome their new inhabitant; granting snippets of their own experiences, and filling me with courage I could do this.
I could raise this little person. I could teach him how to be moral and kind and wise.
I’d been able to break the Debt Inheritance. I could raise a baby boy, no problem.
Jethro touched my hand from the other side of the cot, looping his pinkie with mine. Our son wriggled in his bed, grabbing our joint fingers and squeezing them tight.
My heart glowed as Jethro strained across the crib, kissing me softly. “I love what we’ve created.”
I smiled. “I’m rather glad about that.”
The chubby fingers around ours pinched, demanding more attention. “Okay, okay, demanding little thing.” Jethro let me go, bending over to kiss his son one last time. “It’s time to go to bed.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
The little boy shook his head, loving his favourite game.
I stood quietly, watching son and father interact. The name we’d chosen couldn’t be more apt.
Kestrel.
Kestrel ‘William’ Hawk after Jethro’s original ancestor and closest brother.
Jethro sighed dramatically. “If you don’t go to sleep, you won’t get to enjoy tomorrow.”
“Yes. Tomarrooww.”
I smothered my chuckle. Kes was beyond intelligent for his age. He’d learned to talk far earlier than normal, but his little accent cracked me up.
“No, if you don’t go to sleep, there is no tomorrow.” Jethro grinned, blowing another raspberry on Kes’s neck. “Know why?”
Kes frowned as if the question was incredibly important. “No.”
“Because if you don’t sleep, tomorrow can’t come because you’re still in today.
That’s why we sleep, Kes. So today can pass and our dreams can conjure a new beginning.
You don’t want to ruin that tradition, do you?
” Tucking the sheets tighter around him, he smiled.
“After all, Mummy and I will be in the future, living tomorrow while you’re stuck in the past living today.
We’re going to go to sleep. That means you should, too. ”
Kes suddenly froze, his inherited golden eyes latching onto me. “True?”
“Very true.” Pressing the button of his nose, I murmured, “Go to sleep, little one, so we can have a good day. We’ll go riding. Would you like that?”
He yawned wide, finally letting tiredness take him.
“Good boy.” Removing my hand from the cot, I moved quietly toward the door. Jethro remained, bending to give Kes another kiss. Patting his son’s tiny chest, he checked the nightlight was secure and the baby monitor switched on and synced to his phone.
The little boy who looked exactly like his namesake with cheeky golden eyes and floppy dark bronze hair snuggled in his covers, already falling into dreams as his father sneaked across the room to me.
“You do know he manipulates us to drag out as many minutes before bedtime as possible, right?”
I laughed quietly; stepping into the corridor of our wing, I left the door open a crack. “Did you sense that or just parenting 101?”
His arm snaked around my waist. “A bit of both. If we’re not careful, he’ll have us completely wrapped around his little finger.”
“Eh, I think that’s already happened.”
Leaving the nursery, we padded down the corridor of the bachelor wing. Not that it was the bachelor wing anymore. We’d transformed many of the rooms into playrooms, media rooms, and revamped the bedroom with soft whites and greys rather than overbearing brocade and maroon leather.
It’d been the only part of the house we’d renovated and removed the symbolism of Hawks on plasterwork and architraving. The rest of Hawksridge was a monument to architecture and history. It wouldn’t be right to tear apart something so rich and detailed.
The thought of heading to bed to do more than sleep crossed my mind.
After Kestrel’s birth, I’d returned to running.
It wasn’t a chore. I ran for freedom, for peace.
I ran because it was something I enjoyed.
The baby weight came off, and I returned to designing gowns for my figure.
The caesarean scar was just another mark on my body proving I’d lived a life and won.
But unlike the many others scars I’d earned fighting an age-old debt, this one I wore proudly because it’d been given to me by the greatest gift I could imagine.
And soon, I would have another gift.
I had another secret.
A secret I’d managed to keep far longer than the first. Sneakily hiding my growing bump with excuses and masquerades.
I’d kept my surprise hidden for two reasons.
One, I wanted to see how long it would take Jethro to sense my news.
I constantly expected him to suddenly drop the dishes or stop doing paperwork and announce what grew in my belly.
But ever since Kes had come into our lives, his condition had mellowed. He now had two of us who loved him unconditionally and didn’t walk a razor blade of hypersensitivity—he didn’t need to. All he needed to focus on was happy thoughts and contentment.
Before Kes was born, I’d catch him having a stressful day and try to soothe his condition by giving all the love I could share.
I’d grant him sanctuary in our connection and hold him as long as he needed.
Being in crowds was still too much for him.
Dealing with company travel didn’t often happen as his need for silence hadn’t diminished.
At the start of our relationship, when he’d told me how much he would drain me, how much he would rely on my love for him, I hadn’t fully understood the ramifications of what I’d agreed to.
But now I did and it was the least I could do.
He’d given me so much. On a daily basis, he gave me more of himself than I could ever ask for, and to be able to help cure him after a long day dealing with people granted me power and connection.
But our son.
Well...he was the true cure.