Chapter 20 Rhystan
Rhystan
A week passes after my rut breaks.
A week of watching her, smelling the change in her scent grow stronger each day, knowing what it means and saying nothing. A week of bringing her tea every morning and evening, watching her drink it, thanking me for taking care of her while I poison the bond between us.
A week of my dragon rumbling protect, keep, mine every time she walks into a room.
She's started resting her hand on her stomach when she thinks no one's looking. Just briefly—a unconscious gesture, fingers splayed across her lower belly like she's guarding something precious. She doesn't know why she's doing it. Doesn't know what her body already understands.
But I know.
And the knowing is destroying me.
"You need to see the mystic," I tell her one morning, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "For the contamination. We should monitor the transformation, make sure it's progressing safely."
She looks up from her breakfast, amber eyes sharp. Morning light catches the loose strands of hair that have escaped her braid, turns them copper and gold. Even sleep-rumpled and frowning at me, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You've been hovering more than usual. Is something wrong?"
"Just cautious." I pour her tea, watch her take the cup. "The changes are accelerating. I want to make sure your body is handling them."
She studies me for a long moment—too long, those warrior instincts reading something in my face I'm trying to hide. But then she shrugs and drinks the tea, and I breathe again.
"Fine," she says. "If it'll make you stop looking at me like I'm about to shatter."
The mystic's chambers smell like dried herbs and old magic, the kind of scent that settles into stone over centuries of use.
I'm pacing. Can't stop pacing. Wearing a path in the ancient floor while Kess is inside being examined and I'm out here like some nervous alpha waiting for news about his mate.
Which is exactly what I am.
The door opens.
The mystic emerges, her ancient face carefully neutral, and closes the door behind her with a soft click. She beckons me further down the corridor, away from where Kess might overhear.
"Well?" The word comes out rough, scraped raw by fear.
"Pregnant." The mystic's voice is quiet but certain. "A few weeks along. The pregnancy is taking hold."
I knew. Already smelled it on her. But hearing it confirmed aloud makes it real in a way my own senses couldn't.
"Is the baby healthy?"
"Too early to tell much. But her body is handling it well. The warrior omega bloodline is helping—she's stronger than a normal omega would be." The mystic pauses. "The contamination is supporting the pregnancy rather than threatening it."
Thank the gods.
"Did she suspect anything?"
"She asked why you wanted her examined so urgently." The mystic crosses her arms. "I told her you're concerned about contamination progression. That we need to monitor her transformation."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." Her voice goes sharp. "I lied to your mate for you, your majesty. Looked her in the eye and deceived her while she sat there trusting both of us."
"I know. I just need time—"
"Time for what?" The mystic cuts through my excuses. "To figure out how to tell her you've known for over a week? That you've been giving her bond-weakening herbs while she's carrying your child?"
The words land like blows.
"I'm trying to protect her. The bond puts strain on omega bodies. If I can weaken it, give her body room to transform without the extra pressure—"
"Tell her." The mystic cuts through my excuses. "Before she figures it out herself. Because when she realizes you've been lying—and she will—finding out you knew and kept silent will hurt worse than any truth you're afraid to speak."
She walks away, leaving me alone with my guilt.
I find Kess in our chambers that afternoon, curled up in the window seat where afternoon sunlight pools like honey.
She's not reading, just staring out at the courtyard, one hand resting absently on her stomach.
The light gilds her skin, catches the dark fall of her hair, and for a moment I just stand in the doorway watching her.
Wanting her. Knowing I don't deserve her.
Our child. Growing inside her. Safe for now.
"Kess." Her name comes out softer than I intended.
She looks up and smiles—genuine and warm and so trusting it makes my chest ache. "Hey. Come to check on me again?"
"The mystic said the examination went well." I lower myself onto the window seat across from her. "No complications with the transformation."
"She said I'm progressing correctly, whatever that means.
" Kess stretches, the movement pulling her shirt tight across her breasts, and I have to force my eyes to stay on her face.
"The contamination is doing what it's supposed to—making me stronger instead of killing me. Apparently I'm a textbook case."
"Good. That's good."
She studies me, head tilted. "You look guilty."
My heart stutters. "What?"
"Guilty. Like you're carrying something heavy and trying to pretend you're not." She leans forward. "You've looked like that since your rut ended. Every time you bring me tea, every time I catch you watching me—something's wrong. What is it?"
Everything.
"Nothing's wrong," I lie. "Just concerned about the contamination."
"I'm fine." She takes my hand, her fingers warm and strong, and even that simple touch sends heat curling through my chest. The bond pulses between us—weakened but still there. "Stop worrying so much. I survived your claiming. I survived your rut. Pretty sure I can handle a little transformation."
"I brought tea," I say, nodding toward the tray on the table. "It should still be warm."
She eyes the teapot. For a moment I think she's going to refuse—think she's finally going to ask the questions I can see forming behind her eyes.
"You're very insistent about that tea."
"It helps with the transformation. Keeps your body calm while it changes."
"I have been sleeping better," she admits, pouring herself a cup. "And the nausea's mostly gone. So I guess whatever's in it is working."
She drinks deep, trusting me completely, and I watch her swallow and say nothing.
"Thank you," she says, setting down the empty cup. "For taking care of me. I know I don't say it enough, but I appreciate it. Everything you've done—the training, the library, the tea. You didn't have to be kind, and you were anyway."
The words slide between my ribs like blades.
"You don't have to thank me. You're my mate. Taking care of you is just what I do."
"Well, you're doing a good job." She smiles, and it's like watching the sun rise. "I feel safer here than I ever did in the village. Feel like maybe this could actually work. Us. Together. Building something real instead of just surviving."
"I want that too." The words scrape out. "More than anything."
"Then why do you look like you're at a funeral?
" She touches my face, fingers gentle on my jaw, and I have to stop myself from turning into her palm, from pressing my lips to her wrist where her pulse beats.
"Every time we talk about tomorrow, about staying, about building something—you look like you're mourning something that hasn't died yet. What are you so afraid of?"
Losing you. Watching you leave when you find out what I've done.
"I'm just adjusting," I lie. "Three hundred years alone, and now suddenly I have you. Have hope. It takes getting used to."
"Well, get used to it," she says, and kisses me soft and sweet. Her mouth tastes like the tea she just drank, and I pull her closer without meaning to, deepening the kiss until we're both breathless. "Because I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."
The words lodge in my chest.
I want to believe her.
But when she finds out what I've done, she'll leave.
And I'll deserve it.