Page 8 of The First Child
“With the practical matters. Sleeping arrangements, feeding schedules, monitoring protocols.” I gesture toward the residential wing of my quarters. “The guest room is equipped with standard human amenities. The nursery space can accommodate both human and Zephyrian care requirements.”
“You have a nursery?”
“All family housing units include child-care facilities. I simply haven’t had occasion to use them.”
She nods, processing the information with the methodical approach of someone accustomed to adapting to new situations. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we present our case to the joint council. Together.”
“Any advice for dealing with Zephyrian bureaucracy?”
I consider the question seriously. “Be honest about your limitations, but firm about your commitment. Elder Lunai will test your resolve, but she respects the strength of purpose.”
“And the human representatives?”
“Will likely focus on legal precedent and military efficiency. Your service record should satisfy their concerns.”
Captain Blaxton shifts Aniska to her other shoulder, the movement causing the child to make a small sound of contentment. “What about you? What will you tell them?”
“That Lieutenant Altell chose wisely. That Aniska needs both her human and Zephyrian heritage to develop properly. That denying her access to either would be a form of cultural amputation.”
“You really believe that?”
I study her face, noting the way her defensive barriers lower when she holds the child. The careful way she supports Aniska’s head, the unconscious rocking motion that soothes them both. The fierce protectiveness that radiates from her like heat.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
The admission hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us is ready to examine fully. We’re strangers thrown together by circumstance, responsible for a child whose very existence challenges everything both our species thought they understood about empathic development and interspecies bonding.
We should be adversaries. We should be fighting over jurisdiction and cultural authority and the right to shape Aniska’s future according to our own beliefs.
Instead, I find myself hoping that Captain Blaxton will accept my offer of partnership. That she’ll trust me enough to share the enormous responsibility we’ve both inherited. That tomorrow’s council session will be the beginning of something unprecedented—a truly cooperative approach to raising the first child of her kind.
“Well then,” she says finally. “I guess we’d better not screw this up.”
“No,” I agree. “We’d better not.”
Aniska yawns against Captain Blaxton’s shoulder, a tiny sound that somehow contains all the trust and hope and vulnerability in the universe. Tomorrow will bring politics and bureaucracy and the weight of two species’ expectations.
Tonight, we have a child who needs us both.
It’s enough. For now, it’s enough.
CHAPTER 3
HADA
Sylas’s guestroom looks like it was designed by someone who’s never actually slept anywhere that wasn’t perfectly calibrated for optimal rest. The bed adjusts to my body temperature and weight distribution, the lighting shifts automatically based on circadian rhythms I’m pretty sure it’s guessing at, and the walls emit some kind of harmonic frequency that’s supposed to promote deep sleep.
All of which would be great if I could actually manage tofallasleep.
Instead, I lie here listening to Aniska’s soft breathing through the baby monitor, hyper-aware that she’s three rooms away in a crib that’s probably worth more than my annual salary. Every time she stirs, my heart rate spikes. Every time she settles back into sleep, I wonder if I should check on her anyway.
This is insane. I’ve led combat missions through hostile territory, maintained operational security during deep-cover assignments, and kept my squad alive through three separate planetary bombardments. I should be able to handle one sleeping baby.
But those missions had protocols. Clear objectives and defined parameters for success. This is just me, trying not to break the most important thing Margot ever trusted me with.
The baby monitor crackles with static, followed by a soft whimper that makes me bolt upright. Not crying yet, but the kind of restless sound that usually precedes a full meltdown. I’m out of bed and halfway to the door when I hear footsteps in the corridor—measured, quiet, unmistakably Sylas moving toward the nursery.
