Chapter 26
Delia
The Eyrie, Nightfall
The Eyrie feels like standing inside a storm that learned manners.
Wind hums through the stone, soft and constant, like the whole fortress is breathing.
Everything is tall and airy and dramatic—arched windows, sheer black curtains stirring in invisible drafts, silver lanterns that sway without chains.
And in the center of it all, on an absurdly massive bed draped in black and silver silk, is Jules.
Meeting Alaric’s viyella shouldn’t make me nervous, but my palms are damp and my heart is doing its own panic cha-cha.
She’s beautiful—of course she is.
Silver-streaked dark hair, light gray eyes, plump pink lips, and clear, smooth skin.
The kind of pretty that, back on Earth, usually came with a side of casual cruelty and a pack of mean girls in matching lip gloss.
For one horrible second, I’m back in middle school, waiting for the shoe to drop.
Then she smiles.
A wide, relieved, real smile that hits me right in the chest.
“Hi! You must be Delia. Oh thank God,” she says, throwing out her hand like we’ve known each other for years.
All the air rushes out of me in a relieved laugh. “Yeah. I’m Delia. And you must be Jules.”
Her fingers are warm when they grip mine. There’s a faint tremor there, but the grip itself? Strong.
“Myrrin?” Alaric says, his voice low and worried as he looms beside the bed. “Are you quite alright?”
“I’m fine,” she says, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Please don’t worry so. Why don’t you and Thorne go find me and Delia some nice tea and snacks?”
“You’re sending me for tea when you’re unwell?” he protests, scandalized.
“I think she’s sending you for tea so she can talk to me without you hovering,” I offer, deadpan.
Jules snorts. “Exactly.”
Thorne huffs beside me, but there’s amusement in it.
“We are not hovering,” Alaric mutters.
“You’re hovering,” I say. “Both of you. Go. We’ll be here when you get back. Preferably with cookies.”
Alaric still looks torn.
Jules tilts her head, softening her voice.
“Please, Alaric. I want you to go. Get out. Touch grass. Or, you know. Yell at some clouds.”
His shoulders drop a fraction. That’s all it takes.
He leans down, kisses her forehead like she’s made of spun glass, then straightens and nods once to Thorne.
“Tea,” he mutters. “And snacks. For my lady and her guest.”
“My friend,” Jules corrects, squeezing my hand. “Go, Alaric.”
The two Demon Lords stalk off, Thorne throwing me one last smoldering look that says call if you so much as sneeze, before the door closes behind them.
The moment it does, Jules sags against her pillows and groans.
“You have no idea how much his hovering is getting on my nerves,” she says.
I laugh, moving closer to the bed.
“I think I can imagine. I’ve seen plenty of overbearing husbands. Comes with the job.”
“Oh, right—you were a, uh, what’s it—an EMT, yeah?”
“EMT, yeah. And I trained as a birthing doula for a while too. Lots of sweaty men fainting in delivery rooms.” I grin. “Five stars. Would mock again.”
Jules barks out a laugh, then winces, hand going instinctively to the small swell of her belly.
“Okay,” I say, the professional part of me taking over. “You wanna tell me what you’ve been feeling?”
She nods, serious now. “Dizzy spells. Mostly after I eat. My heart races sometimes for no good reason. I’m more tired than usual—which, being pregnant, I expected, but this feels heavier. I get this pressure behind my eyes, too. Not quite a headache, but close.”
I accept the piece of parchment and the quill she offers, perching on the edge of the bed.
The paper is thick and strangely warm, the ink glimmering faintly like molten silver as I jot notes.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Dizziness, post-meal fatigue, heart racing, pre-headache pressure…”
I set the parchment aside and move closer.
“May I?” I ask, reaching for her wrist.
“Please,” she says, offering it willingly.
Her pulse is fast but steady. Strong. Not thready or weak.
That’s good.
I ask her a few more questions—how far along she is, whether she’s had any vision changes, swelling, pain.
She answers each one clearly, no hesitation.
“Mind if I check your ankles?” I ask.
“By all means,” she laughs. “They’re not my best feature at the moment.”
I press gently against the skin, checking for edema.
There’s some swelling, but not terrifyingly so.
Her breathing is easy. No wheeze. No chest pain reported. I take her blood pressure with my fingers the old-school way—feeling the pulse change as I compress her artery.
Crude, but better than nothing.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “I’m not a primary doctor or an OBGYN, obviously.
But where we come from, this combo of symptoms can sometimes mean you need to watch your blood pressure, measuring salt intake and making sure you’re hydrated.
It could be nothing. Could be your body saying maybe slow down and stop trying to run a whole Dragon Lord’s household by yourself. ”
She snorts. “Rude, but fair.”
“We’ll want to loop in your healers,” I add. “See what their equivalent of lab work and monitoring is. But the fact that you’re not short of breath, not in pain, and that baby’s still rolling around—”
“Like he’s trying to stage a coup,” she mutters.
“—is all good. You did the right thing calling for backup this early. We’re catching this before you’re collapsing in some hallway.”
Her eyes soften. “You really think it’s not, um, catastrophic?”
“From what I can see?” I say honestly. “Your body is doing what it needs to. But you could use some rest and a minor dietary change. No, it’s not a death sentence.
We’ll keep an eye on it. Make a plan. Adjust what you’re eating, how often you’re resting.
Maybe get you some healers who actually listen when you say something feels off. ”
Emotion flickers across her face, quick and sharp.
“Ooh, I like you,” she says abruptly. “We’re keeping you.”
My throat gets oddly tight.
“Guess that works out, because Thorne sort of said he was keeping me already.”
She grins. “Yeah. Alaric said he went all ‘mine, mine, mine’ the second he brought you over. Big, scary Two-Face finally wrapped around some woman’s little finger. It’s adorable.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t worry,” she adds, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Thorne’s a relentless pain in the ass, but he’s loyal as hell. If he’s claiming you, it’s for real.”
My chest squeezes.
“I’m certainly starting to think so,” I admit.
Before she can reply, there’s a light knock at the door.
“Come in,” Jules calls.
The door opens—and a blonde woman with sea-glass eyes and soft curves steps in, cloak still damp from the mist outside. There’s a faint scent of saltwater and something bright and citrusy when she smiles.
“Sorry, I came as fast as I could,” she says, then spots me and goes still. “Oh! You must be Delia. I’m Phoebe.”
She sounds a little breathless. A little shy. But there’s warmth there—it hits me like sunlight on waves.
“I’m Delia,” I confirm, standing to offer my hand. “Resident fire-addict and EMT. You must be the brave soul who tamed the ocean.”
She laughs, eyes crinkling. “I don’t know about tamed. I just ask nicely.”
“Phoebe,” Jules chimes in, “this is the one who made Thorne wanna bolt out of a meeting with the Lords because his bond flared when she wandered too far from him.”
I gape. “He what?”
Phoebe grins. “Kael told me. Said he’s never seen the Lord of Fire move so fast.”
My heart does this stupid, swoopy thing. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
“Okay, I’m gonna pretend that’s not the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” I murmur and fan myself.
Phoebe laughs again, then slips inside fully, and that’s when I see Kael lingering in the hallway behind her—only to be promptly snagged by Alaric and Thorne returning with a tray loaded with teapots and snacks.
“We’ve got it,” Kael tells Phoebe, kissing her temple before letting Alaric drag him away to argue about steeping times or whatever nonsense Demon Lords bicker about when they’re hiding their panic.
The door shuts.
And I can’t help it, I turn to the other women.
“Okay, is it me or is it so weird we’re all from Jersey?” I ask, because my brain has been trying to process that on a loop.
“Um, hello, Jersey Girls are awesome,” Phoebe replies, and we all start laughing.
We’re arranged in a loose circle on Jules’s ridiculous bed—black silk, silver pillows, enough space for at least two more badass women from the Garden State—snort.
Tea arrives five minutes later, plus a plate of little flaky pastries that taste like if baklava and cinnamon toast had a baby.
We have to basically threaten our mates with bodily harm—aka no sex—before they will finally leave us alone.
But they go, and I’m grateful because this—a regular girls’ day—is exactly what I’ve been missing.
“So, how are you coping with all of Thorne’s Demon Lordliness?” Jules asks.
Phoebe snorts into her cup.
“Uh, his what now?”
“You know, all that super-smexy shadow daddy hotness he brings to the table,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.
I might die of embarrassment.
“Seriously! I honestly thought I was having some hyper-specific stress dream the first time Kael said ‘Jersey Shore Aquarium’ back to me with his sexy ocean Lord voice. Like there’s no way that was a normal feeding pool once he stepped in it.”
“Jersey girls only,” Jules says dryly, resting a hand over her bump. “Maybe it’s a warding protocol. The Fates were like, ‘if they’re not from Exit Something, they can’t hack it.’”
I laugh, a real one, chest-deep and warm. “Honestly? I buy it. We grew up dodging potholes and weird smells off the Turnpike. A Demon Lord from a dream-forge realm is so not the strangest thing that’s happened to me.”
“Facts,” Phoebe agrees. “Also, we’ve all done frontline work. EMT,” she nods at me. “Aquarium educator—don’t laugh, those field trip parents are feral—and Jules here with her whole classroom chaos résumé.”