Chapter 8
Abel
Our lad sleeps through, thank fuck. I’m not sure we were entirely quiet at one point, and that stirs my amusement… and a chuckle.
We are locked together still, Bea curled in my lap in the big chair by the hearth, her skirts pooled around us. She tips her head back to glare up at me, all fake indignation at my chuckling.
Gods, I love this woman with everything. I’d give my life for her and young Aiden in a heartbeat were it necessary.
My cock kicks inside her. The knot has softened a little, but the longer I linger with her warm and pliant in my arms, the greater the risk I will never pull out at all.
A faint scuffle and a little thud from behind a certain closed door make the decision for me. I lift her from my lap, and Bea hisses at my haste, even though she is right behind me, tugging her skirt down and adjusting her bodice. My hardening cock is shoved into my pants with a curse.
“Mama! Papa!” The little wail and patter of footsteps bring a broad smile to my lips.
The handle clatters, and a sleepy boy totters out, making a beeline for me.
He throws his arms around my legs, and I hoist him into my arms. I smile down at his warm brown eyes, a mirror of his mother’s.
He pats my cheek and chatters away. “Pank-cakes!” He cannot yet pronounce pancakes, and further, milk comes out as lilk.
Meanwhile, Bea nips into our bedroom to doubtless undertake a clean-up. She returns swiftly—I catch her shy blush that is adorably at odds with the bold woman who comes willingly to me over and over, and who bears the full brunt of my lust like it is her sacred calling.
Like it is her damn due.
She makes herself busy wiping the table down and surreptitiously shaking the flour from the back of her dress before she pours a cup of milk for Aiden and sets to whisking up the pancake batter.
I settle back into the chair. Aiden, now installed upon my lap, has moved on from breakfast demands to weightier matters. “Horsey,” he informs me gravely, patting my chest. “Big horsey. Aiden up.”
“Grandpa’s horses are working horses, lad. Not for small boys.”
“Aiden BIG.”
“Aye, that you are.” I do not commit further. His mother has views, and his grandpa has more. “And what else?”
“Cat.” A pause of great significance. “Cat in bucket.”
I glance at Bea, who has stopped whisking. “Which cat?” she asks carefully. “What bucket?”
Aiden merely beams, well satisfied with his audience, and offers no further intelligence on the matter. Somewhere on this estate, I surmise, a stable cat is plotting its revenge.
I’m tired after the night shift on the battlements, but never will I grow tired of this homely scene.
My boy on my lap, where he chatters about all his plans in broken sentences that take a discerning ear to unravel.
My mate, preparing breakfast with a pretty pink to her cheeks and my scent all over her.
The fire crackles. The batter hits the pan with a hiss, and the smell of pancakes fills our little stone cottage, chasing out the last chill of the night watch.
Guards grumble when the duty roster puts them on the west tower. Cold post, they say. Lonely. Nothing ever happens up there.
I volunteer for it.
And nothing that happens on that battlement, in the dark, with a certain lass who creeps up the stairs—nothing compares to this. The game is a fine one. But this, right here, is the prize.
A man could not want for more.
Thank you for reading Claimed by the Guard. I hope you enjoyed the book!