ASHER
The engine clicks off, and silence settles like dust after a storm.
Outside, the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and late-blooming jasmine, the kind only found in the hush between summer’s end and autumn’s first breath.
I reach across the seat, my fingers brushing Harper’s knee before curling beneath the curve of her belly.
She’s laughing already, even blindfolded, because we’ve done this before—surprises wrapped in secrecy, moments strung between us like fairy lights along the vineyard’s old arbor.
But this one is different.
“Careful,” I murmur as I step out, circling the car to open her door.
My boots press into the gravel drive, soft underfoot after last night’s rain.
The chateau looms behind us, its stone facade bathed in the low amber glow of early evening.
Windows flicker with that quiet, watchful light of a home waiting to be lived in, not just admired.
“Where are we?” she asks, voice pitched with curiosity, her hands lifting to tug at the linen blindfold.
“Not yet,” I say, catching her wrists gently. My thumb skims the pulse beneath her skin. “Just a few steps more.”
Killian stands at the edge of the portico, hands in his pockets, the cuffs of his rolled sleeves revealing the dark ink that winds up his forearm like ivy.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. The quiet possession in his stance—the way his gaze follows her every move—says enough.
Beside him, Maddox leans against a pillar, one shoulder dipped, his grin easy, but I know better.
That look in his eyes, the way his jaw clamps when she walks past him—it’s restraint. Reverence, barely contained.
I guide Harper forward, three steps, then four, until the full breadth of the place unfolds before her.
The chateau is old, built into the hillside with turrets that catch the last of the sun, ivy climbing its northern face like something wild reclaiming ground.
It’s not grand in the way of estates built to impress.
It’s lived-in. Loved. The kind of place that doesn’t need to shout its beauty.
I untie the blindfold.
She blinks once, then again, her breath catching in a soft gasp.
“Is this… a castle?” she whispers.
Maddox laughs, low and warm. “More like a fixer-upper with good bones.”
Killian’s smile is slight, barely there, but it reaches his eyes. “It’s Asher’s. Was, anyway.”
Her head turns toward me slowly. “Yours?”
I nod, watching her face, how her lips part slightly as she takes it in, how her fingers instinctively settle over the swell of her belly, as if shielding, or perhaps showing off. “I come here when the vineyard slows. Too quiet otherwise.”
“And now?” she asks, voice thin with wonder. “What’s it for now?”
I step closer, brushing a loose strand of chestnut from her temple. “For us,” I say simply. “If you want it. This house—this life—it’s meant to be ours. All four.”
Her eyes shimmer, just for a second, before she throws herself at me, arms winding around my neck, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes like salt and promise.
I hold her, one hand braced low on her back, the swell of her stomach pressing into mine.
She’s solid now, real in a way that unravels me every single time.
Then she’s turning, pulling away just enough to press quick, bright kisses to Killian’s mouth, to Maddox’s cheek, lingering a second longer there, her fingers catching briefly in the collar of his shirt.
“So…” she breathes, stepping back, eyes wide, sparkling, “this is ours?”
“Yes, mon c?ur,” I answer, voice low. “If you want it to be.”
She doesn’t answer with words. She pivots on her heel and starts toward the front door, one hand on her belly, the other reaching back for the key I’d tucked into her pocket before we left.
The motion strains her stride—pregnant, unsteady, determined—and I’m already moving to follow, though I know she doesn’t need me to steady her. Not really. Not like that.
It takes her three tries to fit the brass key into the lock. When she finally turns it, the heavy oak groans open, spilling soft light into the foyer. She steps inside and stops, breath shuddering out of her in a quiet laugh.
The air inside is cool, layered with the scent of beeswax and old books, the faint tang of copper from the freshly restored plumbing.
Sunlight stretches in golden rectangles across the wide-plank floors, catching dust motes in slow drifts.
Harper turns in a slow circle, one hand skimming the stone archway, the other gesturing wildly.
“This room,” she says, “we’ll put the big table here—no, bigger.
A farm table, long enough to seat ten, twelve, if Sophia drags half the town over for dinner like she always does.
” Her voice lifts, bouncing faintly off the high ceilings.
“And the kitchen—Asher, tell me you kept the old range? The big iron one?”
“It’s there,” I say, watching her, “exactly how I found it.”
She grins. “Good. I’m burning everything at least once before winter.” Then she’s moving again, down the hall toward the library, her fingers trailing the wall. “We’ll line this room with shelves floor to ceiling. Books. Photos. And the baby’s drawings once they learns to hold a crayon.”
She names furniture placements like it’s a game, like she’s already seeing it all—the sideboard here, the reading nook there, the air filled with laughter and footsteps and the clink of wine glasses on wood.
She turns down the hall toward the stairs, climbing them slowly, her breath catching at every other step.
I stay close, a hand hovering at her lower back, not touching unless she sways.
The primary suite is new. Not just renovated—reimagined.
The bed is wide enough to hold us all, draped in charcoal linen and down.
A fire glows low in the hearth, the scent of cedar sharp in the air.
The bathroom is all glass and warm stone, a deep soaking tub built for two, three, maybe more.
One of the closets is already half-filled with her things—dresses hanging neatly, boots lined up in a row.
Killian must’ve arranged it. He thinks of order. Of space. Of symmetry.
But the other rooms—empty.
“They didn’t touch a thing,” she says, voice soft, standing in the doorway of what will become the nursery. “Even the sheets are still folded.”
Maddox comes up beside her, hands in his pockets. “We wanted you to decide. All of it. What color, what theme. If you wanted a mural of dancing foxes or a constellation map across the ceiling.”
She laughs. “And Killian just… let you do that?”
Killian steps forward, closing the distance between them. His hand settles on her hip, drawing her back until she fits against him, her curves nestling into his frame. “Surrender is relative,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I have my own ways of reclaiming control.”
She shivers, tilting her head back to look at him. “Oh? Like what?”
He growls, low, playful, before capturing her mouth in a kiss that’s too long, too deep for anyone watching. When he pulls back, she’s breathless.
“I’ll make it up to you,” she teases, sliding out of his hold with a laugh.
Then she’s back at the nursery door, eyes alight.
“Sage green,” she says. “Not too dark. And white trim. Oh—oh—a bookshelf along this wall, built in, so we can start with board books and fill it all the way to the top by the time they’re reading novels.
” Her hands sweep through the air, sketching walls, furniture, life.
“A rocking chair—facing the window. We’ll read them stories when it rains.
I want a mural. Not foxes. Stars. A whole night sky, like the vineyard at night, only with constellations we name ourselves. ”
She turns to us, eyes bright. “We can do that, right? Name our own constellations?”
Maddox nods. “As long as mine’s called ‘The Roaring Lion with a Leather Jacket.’”
She giggles. “Killer just gave up decorating. He can name one too.”
Killian’s expression is dark, amused. “I’ve already named it. ‘Her.’ Centered, blazing.”
I don’t speak. I just watch her.
The way her hands hover protectively over her belly. The way her voice lifts when she says we, our, ours. How she doesn’t flinch from any of it—from the future, from us, from the life we’re building tighter around her every day.
And I think—this is what it looks like. Not just motherhood. Not just love. But belonging.
Not one of us knows who the father will be. Not really. And it doesn’t matter. Not in the way that counts. Harper is the center. The fire. The reason the rooms feel warm before the hearth is lit.
She turns to me now, eyes soft, and reaches out, her fingers brushing mine. I take her hand, bring it to my lips.
“This is it,” she whispers. “This is home.”
I press her knuckles to my chest, feel the baby kick—strong, insistent—against my forearm where it rests beneath hers.
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”