Chapter 8
LAYLA
Layla
Three months later.
The new garden has become my favorite place in the Bastion.
It’s located off the courtyard just past the iron gates that lead to Krog’s quarters. Well, our quarters now.
The garden is a small, walled space that a lower Fae guard name Kaeyl helped me create.
I’ve planted flowers and vines, and added soft, glowing moss that pulses in colors that don’t exist in the Wastes.
The plants feed on magic, and at dusk the whole garden shimmers.
It’s the one corner of this magical city that feels like a respite from all that’s happened.
I come here alone most mornings, before the Bastion wakes up and the corridors start humming with guards and politics and the grinding machinery of the city. I sit on the stone bench that Kaeyl sourced from somewhere and talk to my sister.
Tonight, I’ve brought Krog.
He stands behind me in the archway, and even here—in this quiet, living place—his presence changes the air. The Fae lights trace the ridges of his face, the tusks, the scars.
I take his hand. His fingers swallow mine, thick and calloused, yet warm and comforting. The golden thread in my chest hums from the simple contact, making me feel alive and safe. It’s a feeling that I’ve come to cherish.
“This way,” I say.
The memorial for my sister sits next to the back wall where the moss is the thickest. Five smooth stones are stacked on top of each other, creating a simple cairn. A sixth stone rests beside the cairn, her name scratched into it with a blade I borrowed from Krog’s weapon rack.
Eloise.
The letters are crooked; I’m not an engraver. But they’re hers, and they’re here, and that’s the whole point.
“I come here to talk to her,” I say. My voice is steady. It wasn’t, the first few times. “I tell her about the baby. About you. About how strange it is to feel safe and guilty at the same time.”
Krog doesn’t speak. He studies the cairn the way he studies everything, total focus, nostrils flaring, mentally noting scents my human nose can’t detect. The flower blossoms, the moss, the salt of every tear I’ve shed here.
Then he lowers himself to one knee.
He presses one massive palm flat against the earth beside the cairn. The gesture is careful, deliberate, reverent. This creature who ripped a guard’s throat out for bruising my cheek is kneeling beside a pile of rocks to pay respects to my sister.
“She is honored here,” he says. Not a question. Then, quieter, in that low register that vibrates through my sternum: “I would have kept her safe, too, if I had been given the chance.”
And that’s what does it.
Not the physical act of mating or the golden bond we share. Not the fact that he stormed the High Council’s chambers to save my life while I was still asleep. It’s this: kneeling in a garden to honor a woman he’s never met because she mattered to me.
“I love you, Krog.” The words come before I can stop them. Warm. Golden. The same involuntary pull as the bond itself. “I love you.”
He goes still. And through the bond, I feel his response before he speaks. It’s a surge of warmth so intense it steals my breath.
He rises, turning to me. The look in his eyes isn’t the Commander’s control or the beast’s hunger. It’s raw, unguarded emotion.
“And I love you, Layla.”
We stand there, in the glow and the green, the bond humming between us and Eloise’s name on the stone at our feet. I feel the tiniest of flutters in my belly. It might be indigestion, but I decide it’s the baby wanting to be included in the moment.
And then the warmth between us shifts. It drops lower, turns hotter, and my body answers with a surge of desire.
Krog’s nostrils flare, and his eyes darken. A growl rumbles in his chest, a sound that once scared me and now makes my thighs clench.
The grin is halfway to my mouth when someone enters through the iron gates and approaches us. The growl in Krog’s chest shifts from desire to warning. Through the bond, the warmth cools several degrees in the space of a single breath.
It’s one of the Council’s horned guards. “I apologize for the intrusion, High Commander.”
Krog got his old job back. “State your reason for intruding,” he says, putting the full weight of his reinstated title into the words.
“The Council requests the presence of your mate in their chambers, sir.” A hard swallow. “Within the hour.”
The request sounds more like a summons.
Krog looks at me, and the bond relays his anger at the demand. “You can decline the request.”
Part of me wants to do just that. To make the Council wait until a time of my choosing. Another part knows that I need to be cautious when picking battles with the Bastion’s overlords.
“It’s okay, I’ll go. As long as you go with me.” I turn toward the guard. “Tell the Council we’ll be there shortly.”
The guard nods before making a hasty retreat.
We wait until the hour’s almost up before heading to the Council’s chambers.
The Bastion’s corridors are quiet at this hour. Our footsteps sound loud in contrast. Krog’s heavy and measured, mine quicker and lighter, a mismatched rhythm that has become familiar over the last three months.
A guard straightens as we approach, then does an odd thing.
He reaches beneath his breastplate, pulls out a folded square of cloth, and presses it into my hands without a word.
The fabric is soft. Pale. The kind of thing you wrap a newborn in.
He’s back at his post before I can react, eyes forward, jaw set, as though nothing happened.
The cloth is still warm from being pressed against his skin. Krog says nothing. But I catch the faintest pulse of approval.
Further down the corridor, two guards flatten against the walls as we approach, giving the Commander a wide berth. But their eyes glance at me with curious interest. The monsters still aren’t used to seeing their High Commander walk through the corridor with his fated mate.
Kaeyl treats me with quiet warmth, and I’d call him a friend. Most of the others keep their distance, watching from the periphery.
When we reach the Council chambers, Krog requests entrance and the guards open the doors to let us in. We’re led to one of the ancillary rooms where a healer waits beside an exam table, the same one who confirmed my pregnancy three months ago.
He’s a tall, angular Mage with the detached air of someone who has performed thousands of routine examinations. Pale hands hover at the ready, eyes fixed on my belly with the professional interest of a scholar studying a research specimen.
“Research subject 02-01,” the Healer says in greeting. “On the table, please.”
The assumption of compliance irritates me. No one asked if tonight was convenient, or if I was open to an examination.
“What the purpose of this visit?” I ask.
Without answering, the healer reaches for my belly. Krog’s hand catches his wrist before he touches me. The healer goes very still. “My mate asked you a question.”
“The Council has requested an update on the fetus’ growth. I wish to measure its size.”
“Examinations will be made on my terms, not the Council’s.” My voice is quiet yet firm. “Don’t touch me without permission, and don’t scan me until I understand what you’re scanning for. I expect you to explain every step before taking it.”
The healer’s eyes flick to Krog. He’s looking for the Commander to intervene, to make his mate comply.
Krog doesn’t speak.
The mage takes a moment to recalibrate. “As you wish, research subject 02-01.”
“My name is Layla.” Quiet. Firm. “Use it.”
A pause. Then the healer nods. “I am called Harrior.”
The examination is quick, and Harrior gets my permission before scanning my belly with some sort of handheld ultrasound. He explains what he’s measuring, what the numbers mean, and who will see the results, basically, the other healers and the members of the High Council.
“The size of the fetus is consistent with other hybrid fetuses at the three-month mark,” he says. “But you still appear underweight, Layla. Are you eating your full pregnancy rations?”
“She never finishes a meal,” Krog grumbles.
“Ration bars aren’t very appealing when you’re nauseous all the time,” I snap.
“That phase of pregnancy should pass soon,” Harrior says. “The ration bars provide complete nutrition, but I will put in orders for you to also receive fresh bread and fruit to supplement your calorie intake.”
“Thank you.” I say, feeling like the healer and I might have come to an understanding.
Krog says nothing as we exit the Council’s chambers, but his large hand finds the small of my back, his touch warm and grounding.
The route back to our quarters passes the junction that leads toward the Great Hall, which makes me think of the Lottery…and Luna.
My steps slow. Then stop. “Do you think Luna’s okay?”
“She is safe,” Krog replies. “No harm has ever come to a female chosen via the Lottery. Protocol dictates that she remains isolated until she conceives.”
My throat tightens, and I press my palm against the corridor wall, as If trying to touch her. “I asked if she’s okay, not whether she’s safe.”
“I will try and find out,” he says. “I cannot interfere with the Lottery protocols, but I can inquire about her state of mind.”
“Thank you.”
Krog waits until I’m ready to continue walking. Another reason why I love him. He knows when to push and when to let me process.
When we reach the iron gates, Krog pauses, his nostrils flaring. His eyes sweep the courtyard, scanning for danger.
Through the bond I feel an icy chill. “What is it?”
“Vareth was here. But he is gone now.”
I shudder. He’s left us alone since my pregnancy was confirmed, although he might have been responsible for summoning me to the Council chambers tonight without much notice.
“The Fae do not forget a slight,” Krog adds. “They simply wait for the right time to seek retribution.”
The words settle, cold and true. Then I set them aside, filing them away for another time. Because tonight, I have other plans.
“Take me to bed?” I ask in a way that tells him I’m not at all ready to sleep.
Grinning, he sweeps me into his arms and my hand settles on his chest where the gold bond pulses between us, strong and steady. “Gladly, Layla.”
Then, he carries me home.