21. MONIQUE
Twenty One
MONIQUE
When Layla told me she was pregnant, I screamed so loud they probably heard me in the next kingdom.
“Monique!”
“I’M SORRY! I’M EXCITED! YOUR UTERUS IS DOING DIPLOMACY!”
That was three months ago. Now I’m standing in the middle of Vinterfjord palace, freezing my ass off, staring at my best friend who looks like she’s smuggling a watermelon under her dress.
“Girl,” I say, hands on my hips. “You are ROUND.”
“Thank you, Monique. So kind.”
“I mean it in the best way! You look like a fertility goddess. Like if Beyoncé and the Venus of Willendorf had a baby.”
Layla laughs, then winces, pressing a hand to her lower back. “The baby is sitting on my spine. I haven’t slept in three days.”
“Have you tried…”
“Everything. Soren has rubbed my feet, my back, my shoulders. He even tried singing to the baby.”
I blink. “Soren? Singing?”
“Northern lullabies. In Old Norse or whatever. The baby kicks harder when he sings. I think she likes it.”
I fan myself. “That’s… that’s actually really sweet. I’m going to need a minute. The Viking king is singing lullabies. I need to process this.”
Soren chooses that exact moment to walk in. He’s carrying a tray of food, sliced fruit, cheese, some kind of bread that looks like a brick. He sees me and nods.
“Monique.”
“Your Majesty.” I bow, but I’m smirking. “I hear you’ve been singing.”
His jaw tightens. Layla giggles.
“It’s good for the baby,” he grumbles. “The healer said so.”
“The healer said talking to the baby is good. You chose to sing.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
I look at Layla. “He’s blushing. The big scary Viking king is blushing.”
“Monique.”
“I’m just saying! If the northern court could see you now…”
“They’d lose their respect for me,” Soren finishes, setting the tray down. “And I wouldn’t care. Because my wife is happy. And my baby is healthy. And that’s all that matters.”
Layla’s eyes go soft. She reaches for his hand and he takes it immediately, lifting it to his lips.
“Gross,” I say, but I’m smiling. “You two are disgusting. In the best way.”
Later, Soren leaves us alone, after making Layla promise to call for him if she needs anything, after adjusting three pillows behind her back, after kissing her forehead, her lips, her belly. It’s the most extra shit I’ve ever seen and I am HERE for it.
“Okay,” I say, plopping down on the bed next to her. “Spill. Everything. How’s the sex?”
“Monique!”
“Don’t ‘Monique’ me. You’re six months pregnant and married to a man who looks like he was carved from granite. I need details. For science.”
“It’s… different,” she admits. “Better, somehow. He’s so gentle. So careful. But also still so…”
“Filthy?”
“Yes. He talks about my pregnant body like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He kisses my belly before he kisses my mouth. He…”
“Okay, I’m going to stop you before I combust.” I hold up a hand. “But also, continue. For science.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I can’t with you.”
“Yes, you can. You love me. I’m the only person who can appreciate how insane your life is.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her hand resting on her belly. Then she looks at me, and her eyes are serious.
“I’m happy, Mo. Like, really happy. I didn’t think I could be this happy. I thought I was signing up for a life of duty and sacrifice. Instead I got… this. Him. Us.”
I squeeze her hand. “You deserve it, babe. You deserve all of it.”
“I know.” She smiles, and it’s the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. “I really do.”
Soren comes back an hour later, finds us both asleep on the bed, tangled in blankets and gossip magazines I brought from MeliTar. He doesn’t wake us. He just covers us with another blanket, presses a kiss to Layla’s temple, and whispers something in Old Norse that sounds a lot like a prayer.
I pretend to be asleep. But I hear him.
And I think: yeah. This is it. This is what love looks like.
Gross. Beautiful. Perfect.