Chapter 29
ELISE
(Nine months pregnant)
The first contraction hits me while I'm walking through the ice gardens, and I know immediately that this is different from the false alarms I've had over the past week.
This is real.
"Aratus," I gasp, one hand flying to my enormous belly. The twins have been active all morning, their magic responding to mine in ways that make frost bloom across my skin.
He's at my side instantly, having never strayed far during these final days. "Is it time?"
"Yes," I breathe, and another contraction ripples through me. Not painful yet, but insistent. A pressure that announces the inevitable. "They're coming."
His face goes carefully blank—that expression he wears when he's fighting not to show emotion. But through the bond, I feel everything. Terror and excitement and fierce protectiveness all tangled together.
"Inside," he says, sweeping me into his arms before I can protest. "Now."
"I can walk—" Another contraction cuts off my words.
"Not arguing about this," he growls, already moving toward our chambers with preternatural speed.
The midwives are summoned. The birthing chamber is prepared. Everything happens with efficient precision that would be comforting if I wasn't increasingly occupied by the waves of pressure building in my body.
"How long?" I ask the head midwife when she arrives, her silvery eyes assessing me with centuries of experience.
"Hard to say with twins, Your Majesty. Could be hours. Could be longer." She examines me with cool efficiency, her Fae healing magic flowing through me in diagnostic waves. "The contractions are still fairly far apart. You're in early labor."
"How much longer?" Aratus demands, his control fraying at the edges.
"Your Majesty, first births take time. Even with our healing magic accelerating the process, we're looking at potentially eight to twelve hours—"
"Twelve hours?" His voice drops to dangerous levels.
"Alpha," I say firmly, catching his hand. "She's trying to help. Don't freeze the midwife."
He visibly reins himself in, but I can feel his agitation through the bond. The ancient Fae lord who's lived six centuries is terrified by the prospect of me in labor.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says, as much to himself as to me.
"Good," I manage between contractions. "Because I'll hunt you down if you try to leave."
Hours pass. The contractions intensify, coming closer together. I walk, I rest, I breathe through each wave. Aratus stays at my side through all of it, his cold hand the only thing that seems to help when the pain starts building.
"This is your fault," I gasp during a particularly strong contraction.
"I know."
"Both your cocks. Both your fault."
"I know," he says again, but there's almost humor in his voice now.
"Not funny," I pant as the contraction eases. "When this is over, I'm going to kill you."
"You can try." He presses a kiss to my sweaty forehead. "After you've recovered."
"Recovered?" I laugh, but it turns into a groan as another contraction starts building. "You think I'm recovering from this?"
By hour ten, I'm no longer walking. The contractions are coming hard and fast, the pressure overwhelming. My magic responds chaotically, ice forming in violent patterns across every surface.
"I can't," I gasp, gripping Aratus's hand hard enough that my nails draw blood. "I can't do this."
"You can," he says, voice absolutely certain. "You're the strongest person I know."
"I'm not strong. I'm terrified."
"You're both." His other hand cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You can be terrified and still do this. You can be weak and still be strong enough."
The words cut through my panic. He's right. I've done impossible things before. This is just another one.
The head midwife checks my progress and nods. "You're ready. Next contraction, I need you to push."
"I don't want to," I hear myself say, and I sound like a child.
"I know." Aratus's voice is gentle. "But our children are coming whether you're ready or not. So let's meet them."
The next contraction builds, and I bear down with everything I have. The pressure is incredible, overwhelming, unlike anything I've ever experienced. I scream through it, not caring who hears.
"Good," Professor Wells encourages. "Again with the next one."
It goes on forever. Push after push, contraction after contraction, until I'm nothing but exhausted determination. Aratus stays with me through all of it, letting me crush his hand, anchoring me when I feel like I'm coming apart.
"I can see the first head," the midwife announces. "One more big push."
I gather everything I have left and push. The burn is intense, impossible, and then suddenly there's release and the sound of a baby crying.
"A girl," the midwife says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "A beautiful girl."
They place her on my chest immediately, this tiny screaming creature covered in vernix and blood and absolutely perfect. She has my dark hair and Aratus's pale eyes, and the moment she touches my skin, frost blooms across both of us.
"Hello," I whisper, awed. "Hello, little one."
But there's no time to rest. The second twin is coming, the contractions starting again almost immediately.
"I can't," I gasp, even as I hand our daughter to a midwife. "I just—I can't do it again."
"You can," Aratus says. "One more. Just one more."
This labor is faster. My body knows what to do now, and within twenty minutes I'm pushing again. The burn, the pressure, the overwhelming sensation of my body doing something impossible.
And then—release. Another cry, deeper than his sister's.
"A boy," the midwife announces. "Healthy and strong."
They place him on my chest next to where his sister has been returned, and I stare at them both in wonder. My son has Aratus's white hair and my human warmth, already reaching for his sister with tiny fingers.
"They're perfect," I breathe, and through the bond I feel Aratus's overwhelming emotion.
"They're ours," he says, voice rough with feeling.
The midwives work efficiently, cleaning the babies, checking them over, making sure everything is as it should be. I deliver the placentas—both of them, which is surreal—and the head midwife declares the birth complete and successful.
"Rest now," she says gently. "You've done incredibly well."
But I can't rest. Not yet. Not when I'm holding my children for the first time, feeling their small magics already responding to mine and their father's.
"What should we name them?" I ask Aratus, who hasn't taken his eyes off the twins since they were born.
"You choose," he says. "You did all the work."
"We made them together." I study our daughter, who's stopped crying and is now watching us with those eerily intelligent pale eyes. "She looks like winter starlight. Lyris, maybe?"
"Lyris," he repeats, testing the name. "It suits her."
"And him?" Our son is still fussing slightly, unhappy about being outside where it's warm. "He's going to be as dramatic as you, I can already tell."
"Careful," Aratus warns, but he's smiling. "Caelan. It means 'slender' in the old tongue, but it also means 'powerful.'"
"Lyris and Caelan." I look down at them both, these impossible creatures we created. "Our children."
The weight of it hits me then. These babies will grow up in this world of courts and prophecies. They'll be part of whatever comes next—the completion of the bonds, the return of Fae power, all of it.
"They're going to have a complicated life," I say quietly.
"They're going to have us," Aratus corrects. "And we'll make sure they're strong enough to handle whatever comes."
Through the bond, I feel his absolute certainty. He's already planning their futures, already preparing to shape them into the heirs they need to be.
"No pressure, right?" I murmur to Lyris, who yawns and immediately falls asleep on my chest.
The next hours pass in a blur of exhaustion and wonder. The babies feed—that's a learning curve I wasn't prepared for—and sleep, and wake to fuss before sleeping again. Aratus holds them with careful reverence, this ancient powerful being reduced to gentle touches and soft words.
"You're good at this," I observe, watching him rock Caelan while Lyris nurses.
"I'm terrified," he admits. "They're so small."
"They're half Fae. They're probably sturdier than they look."
"Still." His eyes meet mine. "I never thought I'd have this. Children. Family. The bond was supposed to give me power, not—"
"Not love?" I finish when he trails off.
"Not this much love," he says quietly. "Not enough love that the thought of anything happening to any of you makes me want to destroy the world."
"Dramatic," I say, but my throat is tight.
"Honest," he corrects.
Lyris finishes nursing and immediately wants her father. I watch him juggle both twins, this fearsome Fae lord completely undone by two tiny babies, and something settles in my chest.
This is my family now. Not the one I was born into, but the one I chose. The one I built with the man who claimed me and changed me and somehow, impossibly, became my partner in all of this.
"Any regrets?" he asks, our familiar question.
I look at him holding our children, at the life we've built in this ice palace, at the bond that connects us so thoroughly we're practically one being.
"No," I say firmly. "No regrets."
Not about coming back. Not about staying. Not about the woman I've become or the family I'm building or the complicated, messy, beautiful life I'm choosing every day.
A knock interrupts the moment—another message from another court, probably. More bonds being formed, more women being claimed, the prophecy grinding forward with inexorable momentum.
But for now, I ignore it. For now, there's only this: my children sleeping on my chest, my mate at my side, and the absolute certainty that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
"Get some rest," Aratus says softly. "I'll watch over you all."
"You need to rest too."
"I'm Fae. I can go days without sleep." His lips brush my forehead. "Let me take care of my family."
I want to argue, but exhaustion is pulling at me. The labor took everything I had, and my body is demanding recovery time.
"Wake me if they need me," I murmur, already drifting.
"I will," he promises.
As I fall asleep, I feel the bond humming between us—steady, strong, evolved into something so far beyond what he originally created. We're not master and pet anymore. We're not even just alpha and omega.
We're partners. Parents. Two people who found each other in the worst possible way and somehow made it into something worth having.
My last thought before sleep takes me is that our children will know a different world than I did. Not because the courts will change or the prophecy will be kinder.
But because they'll have parents who chose each other, who built something real from ashes and ice and desperate need.
And maybe that will be enough.