Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Nick
The apartment hums with magic.
Not the kind of magic that comes and goes, or just hangs around the edges.
This is the real deal. Old. It hums in the walls, settles in the air, sharp and cold, like the first snap of winter.
I worked the wards in myself, layer by layer, until the place felt safe.
If you know where to look, you can spot the faint blue glow along the doorframes and windows, even in the cracks between the floorboards.
No one gets in unless I say so. No one messes with what’s mine.
A week. That’s how long it’s been since I stepped back into Samantha’s world. Since I saw her round with my child, her eyes wide with fear and fury and something else. Something that looked too much like relief when she realized I wasn’t leaving again.
I’ve spent the week watching Samantha go about her days, her hand drifting to her stomach like she’s checking to make sure the baby’s still there.
She laughs more than I deserve, considering everything I put her through.
Ella’s been watching me too, her suspicion wound tight.
She’s got that look Everett sometimes gets, like she’s already figured me out.
I almost tell her she’d make a decent elf, just to see if she’ll roll her eyes at me.
The bakery’s been quiet, at least. No shadows in the corners, no demons or angels hanging around, waiting to make trouble. I know they’re out there. I can feel it, like a low buzz under my skin. But for now, they’re keeping their distance.
I should be focused on the real problems. The wards, the threats, the plan. Instead, I keep catching myself staring at her.
Samantha leans over the oven, pulling out a tray of something that smells so good it’s almost criminal. Her hair’s coming loose from its bun, curls sticking to her neck. The apron’s covered in flour, the ties barely making it around her belly. My kid. Our kid.
My chest tightens.
She’s always been beautiful. But now? Now she’s a goddess. Every curve is softer, fuller, her hips flaring, her breasts heavy. The way she moves. Slow, deliberate, like she’s carrying the weight of the world. It makes my hands itch to touch her. To worship her.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, and watch as she sets the tray down and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. The baby kicks, a sharp little jolt that makes Samantha gasp and press a palm to her stomach.
“She’s strong,” I say, voice rough.
Samantha startles, then laughs, breathless. “She’s a menace. I swear she’s practicing taekwondo in there.”
I step closer, unable to help myself. My hand hovers over her belly, waiting for permission. She doesn’t pull away. So I press my palm flat against the curve, and…
Thump.
The baby kicks again, right under my palm. Like she’s saying hello. Or maybe staking her claim.
I forget to breathe for a second.
Samantha’s eyes find mine, dark and knowing. “You feel that?”
"I feel her," I say, my voice rough. A daughter. I’m going to have a daughter. I should be scared out of my mind, but the thought just settles in, heavy and certain.
She looks at me for a long second, then goes back to her baking. I catch the way her mouth tightens, like she’s biting back something she wants to say. Probably a lot of things.
I deserve every one of them.
Dinner is quiet. Samantha picks at her food, her appetite diminished by the baby pressing against her ribs. I made her favorite. Some kind of pasta with garlic, lemon, and herbs, but she only manages a few bites before pushing the plate away.
"You need to eat," I say, sharper than I mean to.
She glares at me. “I’m trying. It feels like she’s sitting on my stomach.”
I let out a breath and try to dial it back. "Just eat what you can. But you’re not skipping meals."
She rolls her eyes at me, but picks up her fork anyway. I watch her take another bite, notice the way she swallows, the way her tongue flicks out to catch a bit of sauce at the corner of her mouth.
Fuck.
I shift in my seat, my cock already half-hard just from watching her eat. Pregnancy has made her lush. Her lips are fuller, her skin glowing, her body ripe with life. Mine. Ours.
I want to sink to my knees in front of her. Want to press my face between her thighs and taste how sweet she must be now, heavy with child, dripping with need. Want to hear her moan my name the way she used to, before I ruined everything.
Instead, I clear the plates and send her to bed.
The fireplace wasn’t here before.
I added it the night I moved in. Just a bit of magic, nothing fancy. Samantha deserves warmth. She deserves something good. The look on her face when she saw it, like she couldn’t believe it was real, made it worth the effort.
Now, I sit in the armchair beside it, the fire crackling low, the wards humming in my veins. The apartment is silent except for the occasional creak of the floorboards, the soft inhale of Samantha’s breath from the bedroom.
I should probably get some sleep. I need to be sharp. But my brain won’t shut up.
The entities hunting my child aren’t just curiosities.
They’re hungry. Demons want to twist her into something dark, a corruption of joy, a spreader of despair.
Angels want to weaponize her, turn her into a tool for their endless wars.
And then there are the others. The things that don’t fit into either category, the ancient, nameless beings that see a child of two worlds and lick their lips.
I’ll kill them all before I let them touch her.
The thought should steady me. Instead, it sits like a stone in my gut.
Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can protect her. Not forever. Not from everything.
I already failed Samantha once. Left her alone, scared, and pregnant. What if I screw it up again?
The fire pops, sending up a shower of sparks. I rub my face, the weight of centuries pressing down on my shoulders. I’ve lived lifetimes. I’ve seen empires rise and fall. I’ve delivered gifts, joy, and hope to millions.
But I’ve never been a father.
And I’ve never been so fucking afraid.
I don’t hear her approach.
One moment, I’m lost in the fire, the next, there’s a soft rustle of fabric, the scent of vanilla and something uniquely her.
Samantha lowers herself beside me, her movements slow, awkward with the weight of her belly.
She doesn’t speak at first. Just sits, her shoulder brushing mine, her warmth seeping into me like a balm.
Then, quietly: “You’re thinking too loud.”
I let out a breath. "Didn’t realize I was that obvious."
She hums, her fingers twisting in the hem of her nightgown. It’s thin, cotton, the kind that clings to her curves in a way that makes my mouth dry. The firelight plays over her skin, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the roundness of her belly.
“You left,” she says suddenly.
I flinch. “Samantha.”
“No.” She turns to face me, her dark eyes glinting. “You left. And it hurt. But I get it now. Or maybe I don’t get it, not really. But I understand why.”
My throat tightens. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything unsaid. Then her hand finds mine, her fingers sliding between my own. Her skin is soft, warm. Alive.
“I forgave you a long time ago,” she whispers. “I just didn’t know if I’d ever get to tell you.”
Something cracks open in my chest.
I turn to her, my free hand cupping her face, my thumb brushing over her cheekbone. She leans into the touch, her eyelashes fluttering closed.
“Samantha,” I rasp.
I don’t think. I just move.
My hands are on her, pulling her onto my lap, her legs straddling my thighs.
She gasps, her belly pressing between us, but I don’t stop.
Can’t stop. My mouth crashes onto hers, desperate, starving.
She tastes like mint and something sweeter, something hers, and I groan into the kiss, my hands sliding into her hair, gripping the strands like a lifeline.
She moans against my lips, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Nick…”
“I need you,” I growl, my voice raw. “Let me worship you.”
Her breath hitches. Then she nods.
I take my time undressing her.
The nightgown first, peeling it up over her head, revealing her full, lush breasts, the dark nipples already tight with arousal. My mouth waters. I palm one, then the other, my thumbs brushing over the peaks, drawing out a whimper from her lips.
“So beautiful,” I whisper, bending to take a nipple between my lips.
She arches into me, her fingers tangling in my hair as I lick, suck, bite just enough to make her gasp.
The taste of her skin, salt and warmth and woman, goes straight to my cock, which is already painfully hard, straining against my pants.
But this isn’t about me. Not right now.
I slide lower, pressing kisses to her belly, my hands spanning the width of her. The baby shifts beneath my palms, a little roll, a press of something small and perfect. My breath stutters.
“She knows you,” Samantha whispers, her voice trembling.
I look up at her, my hands still cradling her stomach. “She knows us.”
Then I’m kissing lower, my lips trailing over the soft skin of her thighs, nudging them apart. The scent of her hits me. She's musky, rich, wet. I groan, my control fraying.
“Such a beautiful little pussy, Samantha,” I growl, my breath hot against her. I drag my tongue through her folds, slow, deliberate, and she jerks, her hips lifting off the rug.
“Nick!”
I lick her again, this time focusing on her clit, swirling my tongue around the tight bundle of nerves. She’s dripping, her arousal coating my chin, and I growl against her, the vibration making her whimper.
“So wet and ready for me,” I praise, my fingers digging into her thighs, holding her open. “Can you come for me, baby?”
She nods frantically, her hands fisting in my hair. “Please…”
I chuckle darkly, then dive in.
I lose myself in her, hungry for every sound she makes.