Willow
The discomfort began in the morning—a slow, creeping pressure, like vines tightening around my spine. By afternoon, it was no longer discomfort—it was agony.
I banged on the gilded door, my voice raw. “Someone, please help me!”
When I paused, banging, there was no answer. Fae babes grew faster than human ones. I knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the terror clawing up my throat. What if something went wrong? What if this birth, like the last, ended in silence?
I pressed a hand to my belly. Evander kicked hard, as if scolding me for doubting him.
Alive. Alive. Alive. He was alive.
The door flew open. A dark-haired Fae servant stood there, her eyes widening as she took in my hunched form, the sweat soaking my nightdress. Without a word, her silver wings flared, and she vanished to alert the court.
Alone again, I staggered to the bed, my fingers digging into the sheets. Memories ambushed me—the sterile hospital where I’d lost Luke, the premature labour, and the words that still rang in my ears.
There’s no heartbeat. I’m sorry.
I choked back a sob. Not this time. Not this child.
The first real contraction hit, sucking the air from my lungs. It felt like my bones were splintering. Like, Evander wasn’t just moving down, but clawing his way out.
The doors burst open again. Midwives swarmed in, their hands cold, their voices colder.
“It’s time,” one said, as if I hadn’t already figured that out.
I wanted to scream. To fight. But another contraction ripped through me, and all I could do was hold on and pray that this time, I’d get to hold my baby.
The pain ripped through me like claws, each contraction a cruel reminder that my body was no longer mine.
I bit down on the leather strap until my gums bled, the taste of salt and iron flooding my tongue.
The Fae midwives’ hands were cold as they pressed against my thighs, their whispers like rustling dead leaves.
“Push.”
I screamed—not just from the agony, but from the way my muscles twisted unnaturally, as if the child inside me was carving his own path out. He didn’t crown. He slithered free in one slick, violent rush.
Silence.
Then, a sound broke free, and I sagged in relief.
Evander’s first cry. He was alive.
The midwives swarmed, their silk gloves wiping him clean. My arms shook, desperate to hold him, to feel the weight of a living child in my arms at last. But before I could even lift my head, Alvar was there.
He snatched the baby from them, his obsidian eyes alight with something feral. “My son,” he breathed, cradling Evander like a prize.
No. Mine too. The words lodged in my throat, suffocating me.
The midwives bowed, offering a cloth of black velvet to wipe away the remnants of his birth—my blood, my sweat, the last pieces of me still clinging to his skin. Alvar dragged the fabric over Evander’s tiny body, then pressed the stained silk to his lips.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
A memory flashed—Luke’s nursery. The tiny socks I’d folded, the mobile of stars I’d hung, the way I’d packed it all away in a box when the midwife handed me silence instead of a crying baby. I never got to hold him either.
“Please,” I rasped, reaching out with trembling hands. “Let me hold—”
The King turned away, carrying him toward the door, my son’s dark eyes, so like his father’s, locked onto mine and for one heartbeat, his cries stilled.
I heard the cheering and joy on the other side before the room doors slammed shut.
My heart shattered all over again.
◆◆◆
They bathed me with elixirs that smelled of crushed violets, their hands brisk, impersonal. The fluids stung where my skin had torn, sealing wounds but not the hollowness beneath. I lay there, limp as a discarded doll, while their magic knitted me back together.
A vessel. Empty. Used.
Lily was the only one who lingered. Her fingers, softer than the others, brushed my tangled hair from my forehead—a kindness or perhaps just another chore.
“The prince will need to be fed,” she murmured, her silver wings twitching. “He will be back soon.”
I lifted my head just enough to nod, not enough to hope. The door clicked shut behind her, and I was alone again with the silence and the aching weight of my own body.
The memory of Evander’s obsidian eyes, locked onto mine for that one fleeting second, flared behind my eyelids. It was a cruel comfort, but I clung to it anyway.
Somewhere beyond these walls, my son was crying, and the King was listening.
His squalls grew louder, closer. I jerked upright, flinging the sheets aside just as the doors flew open. There stood the King, Evander cradled like a stolen prize in the crook of his arm. My son’s face was flushed red, his tiny fists flailing. My lips tightened in anger at his hunger.
“Feed him,” the King commanded, his gaze flicking to the milk soaking through my nightdress.
“You should have brought him sooner,” I said, trying not to snarl at him, but I held out my arms instead with trembling fingers.
For a heartbeat, the King hesitated. Then, with reluctance in every movement, he passed Evander to me. My son immediately fisted my hair, yanking hard enough to make my eyes water. I laughed, pressing a kiss to his hot, furious cheek.
“I’m sorry, my darling,” I whispered. “Blame your dull-witted father.”
The King’s growl slithered through the room. The thorned collar around my throat tightened, but I didn’t flinch.
I settled onto the bed, loosening my laces. Evander latched on with a vengeance, his tiny claws kneading my breast. The pain was sharp, bright like a brand. Mine.
As he fed, I traced his features in marvel at his beauty.
His lips were full, like mine, not the King’s cruel slash.
His lashes were dark as spilt ink. When his free hand splayed against my skin, I unfurled his tiny fingers and slid my own between them.
My heart swelled with love when he squeezed tight.
For the first time since being brought to Duskend, I felt like a mother, not a prisoner.
I didn't even notice the King skulking away.
◆◆◆
The King returned at dusk, his shadow swallowing the room whole.
“Enough,” he said, eyeing the way Evander curled against my bare chest, his tiny mouth still latched to my nipple. “He’s fed. Give him to me.”
I braced for the fight, but before I could even speak, Evander decided for me.
His claws that were as sharp as thorns around my neck dug into my breast as the King tried to pry him away. A whimper escaped me, but Evander only hissed, his black eyes glaring at his father.
“Release her,” the King commanded coldly.
Evander bit down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make his father jerk back in shock. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Then, I heard a sound I hadn’t heard in months. It was my laughter, which bubbled up within me. It was a bitter and broken sound.
“You find this amusing?” he asked with a glare.
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, smearing tears I hadn’t realised I’d shed.
“I think this is what humans refer to as poetic justice.”
Evander, triumphant, nuzzled deeper into my skin. His tiny fingers tangled in my hair as if to say: Mine.
The defeated King sat on the bed with a sigh, stroking Evander’s cheek. His son reached for his finger and held onto it as his eyes began to droop.
“I guess he is his father’s son after all,” he murmured before he leaned down, his mouth latching onto my other nipple.
I flinched, ready to shove him away, but Evander’s hand shot out, tangling in his father’s long hair, holding him in place.
I shook my head, pulling Evander closer against my chest. My thumb stroked the downy curve of his ear, reassuring him that I understood.
He wanted both of us.
The King had trapped me in his world, bound me with thorns and cruel bargains. However, Evander might become my advocate.
This wasn't how I’d planned on becoming a mother, and I’d never forget Luke, but Evander was an unexpected balm to my soul—a spark of defiance and a flicker of mine in this gilded prison.