Page 20 of The First Child
“Know what?”
Her smile carries enough warmth to make my thermal regulation systems spike in sympathy. “That this isn’tjustabout Aniska anymore.”
The words hang between us like a bridge I’m not sure I’m brave enough to cross. Acknowledging attraction is one thing—acting on it while responsible for a child who depends on our stability is something else entirely.
“Hada, the situation is complicated?—”
“Most worthwhile things are.” She shifts Aniska to one arm, freeing her other hand to trace the bioluminescent patterns that mark my jawline. “I’m not asking for promises or declarations or anything that might make things harder than they already are.”
“What are you asking for?”
“Honesty. About what we both felt during the healing. About why you look at me like I’m something precious when you think I’m not paying attention. About whether this partnership might become something more than just shared custody.”
Her touch against my markings sends cascades of sensation through my consciousness—not just physical pleasure, but emotional resonance that makes every carefully maintained barrier crumble like paper in rain. I’ve spent over a century learning to control my responses, to maintain the spiritual equilibrium that defines Zephyrian priests.
None of that discipline prepares me for the way Hada makes me feel utterly, completely alive.
“I care about you,” I admit, the words emerging with difficulty but absolute truth. “More than is wise, given our circumstances.”
“Why isn’t it wise?”
“Because if we pursue this attraction and it proves incompatible with our responsibilities to Aniska?—”
“Then we deal with that if it happens.” Her thumb traces the curve of my cheek, and I find myself leaning into the contact despite every rational objection. “But what if it doesn’t? What if caring about each other makes us better parents instead of worse?”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but as she voices the idea, I see the logic. The empathic connection we share with Aniska grows stronger when we work together, when our combined consciousness provides the stability she needs to thrive. Perhaps emotional connection between us would enhance rather than complicate that partnership.
“You make it sound simple.”
“Not simple. Just… worth trying.” She leans closer, and I catch the scent of her skin mixed with the lingering traces of Aniska’s baby soap. “Unless you’re not interested in?—”
I silence her with a kiss that answers every question she might have asked.
It’s meant to be gentle, careful—a first exploration rather than a passionate declaration. But the moment our lips meet, every suppressed emotion of the past week floods through the empathic connection still linking our consciousness. Her desire meets mine in feedback loops that make my markings flare withuncontrolled bioluminescence, painting the healing chamber in patterns of gold and silver light.
She tastes like determination and hidden sweetness, like the kind of courage that faces impossible odds without flinching. I lose myself in the sensation of her mouth against mine, in the way she responds with equal hunger despite the sleeping child between us.
When we finally break apart, both breathing harder than a medical emergency would explain, Aniska stirs with the sleepy contentment of someone who feels utterly safe in the presence of those who love her.
“So,” Hada says softly, her eyes bright with mischief and something deeper. “I guess we’re doing this.”
“Apparently so.”
“Any regrets?”
I study her face, noting the way humor and vulnerability combine in her expression. The trust she offers by allowing me to see past her military composure to the woman beneath. The fierce protectiveness that mirrors my own growing attachment to both her and Aniska.
“None,” I tell her honestly. “Though I suspect we’re about to make our lives significantly more complicated.”
“Good.” Her smile transforms her entire face, making her look younger and more beautiful than should be legal. “I am getting bored with simple.”
CHAPTER 7
HADA
“Absolutely not.”
Sylas stands in the center of our living space, arms crossed, watching me unpack the third box of Christmas decorations with the expression of someone observing a minor catastrophe in progress. His bioluminescent markings pulse with what I’ve learned to recognize as barely controlled exasperation.
