1. The Biological Betrayal #3
Another silence. His shoulder is close to mine. Not touching. Just... there. Present. Steady.
I’ve buried forty-seven lovers—some I loved, some I tolerated, all I outlived because that’s what I do. I know how this ends. I always know how this ends.
But he’s not like them.
He can’t die. Not while the dragon lives. Not while the bond holds. For the first time in eight centuries, I’m sitting next to someone who might actually still be here tomorrow. And the day after. And the decade after that.
The thought is terrifying.
The thought is something like hope.
I ignore both.
“Your tea is getting cold,” he says.
“It was already cold.”
“Colder, then.”
I take the cup. The tea is lukewarm at best, too much ginger, not enough honey. It’s terrible. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted all day, because he made it, because he brought it, because he’s trying.
Ren is trying.
The emperor of the Dragon Throne, who has commanded armies and survived assassination attempts and ruled with stone-faced composure for twenty-two years, is learning how to make ginger tea for a pregnant assassin who can’t die.
My life has become ridiculous.
“Thank you,” I say, and the words feel strange in my mouth, too soft, too sincere. “For the tea.”
He nods. Doesn’t make it into a thing. Just accepts it, files it away, adds it to whatever careful map he’s building of who I am and what I need.
We sit.
The afternoon wears on.
I don’t tell him to leave.
Evening finds us still in the garden.
Not on the bench anymore—we’ve migrated to the pavilion, where someone has left cushions and a low table and more tea that I won’t drink because my stomach has opinions.
Dumpling has abandoned his conquest of Tianlong and claimed my lap instead, all seventeen pounds of orange entitlement arranged across my thighs like I exist solely for his comfort.
Which, according to him, I do.
Ren is reading. Some report or other—trade negotiations, troop movements, the endless minutiae of empire. He’s not really reading it. I can tell by the way his eyes haven’t moved in three pages. He’s here because I’m here. He’s staying because I haven’t told him to go.
This shouldn’t feel as significant as it does.
The sun sets. The garden goes gold, then amber, then soft grey. Somewhere in the palace, servants light lanterns, prepare dinner, go about the business of keeping this place alive. Here, in this moment, it’s just us. Me and the emperor and a cat who thinks he’s a god.
My hand moves without permission, settles on the slight curve of my stomach. There’s nothing to feel yet—she’s too small, too new, just a possibility wrapped in biology—but my fingers find the spot anyway. Like they’re looking for something. Like they expect to find it.
Find Her.
My daughter.
Dumpling shifts. Presses his head against my palm.
His purr rumbles through me, vibrating against the place where she’s growing, and I wonder if she can feel it.
If she knows, somehow, that there’s a world out here waiting for her.
That there are people—strange, ridiculous, well-armed people—who have already started planning her security and researching her development and making lists of her potential enemies.
The thought catches me off guard.
This could be okay.
The realization is quiet. Almost careful. Like it knows it’s not supposed to be here, in my head, in this moment. Like it’s afraid I’ll notice it and run.
I’ve been running for so long.
But Dumpling is purring. And Ren is breathing, steady and present, pretending to read his report.
And somewhere out there, Tianlong is nursing his wounded dignity and probably plotting elaborate revenge against a cat.
And Jing has her notes and Wei has his security assessments and Mei has her list of people to eliminate.
I have people.
Somewhere in the past few months, without meaning to, without permission, I’ve acquired people.
This could be okay.
The palace settles around us. The last of the daylight fades. Ren finally gives up pretending to read and sets the report aside, and his hand finds mine in the gathering dark—not holding, not quite, just touching. A point of contact. A reminder that he’s here.
I let him.
This could be—
My stomach lurches.
Oh no.
I shove Dumpling off my lap—he yowls in protest, deeply offended—and barely make it to the garden before the tea makes a reappearance. The wrong-temperature, the ginger, terrible tea. Of course.
Ren is there. Holding my hair back. Because that’s what he does now, apparently. Because that’s who we are.
“Are you okay?” He soothes as he rubs my back.
“Okay,” I manage, wiping my mouth, “is a relative term.”
He doesn’t laugh. But his mouth does that thing—the almost-smile, the crack in the composure that he never shows anyone else—and his hand is steady on my back, and Dumpling is already climbing back into my lap like nothing happened, like I didn’t just unceremoniously dump him, and somewhere a dragon is complaining about cats to anyone who will listen, and—
Yeah.
This could be okay.