Seraphina’s POV
Three weeks had passed since the interrogation room incident, and the sudden silence from the rogue camps was more unnerving than any attack could have been.
I stood at the kitchen window of Damien’s—our—mansion, watching the morning mist rise from the gardens while my hands cradled a cup of ginger tea. The warmth felt good against my palms, and the familiar scent helped settle the queasy feeling that had beco my constant companion over the past week.
"No movent on any of the border sensors," Lucas reported from the dining room, his voice carrying the sa tense confusion that had marked all our recent security briefings. "It’s been eighteen days since the last confird rogue sighting."
"That’s not normal," I heard Damien reply, the worry evident in his tone despite his attempt to sound calm. "Rogues don’t just disappear. They regroup, they plan, they—"
A sudden wave of nausea hit like a freight train, cutting off my eavesdropping as I rushed toward the nearest bathroom. My hand flew to my mouth, but I barely made it to the toilet before my body betrayed yet again.
"Mommy?" Adrian’s concerned voice ca from the doorway as I knelt on the cold marble floor, trying to catch my breath. "Are you sick again?"
I wiped my mouth with a damp washcloth and attempted what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Just morning sickness, sweetheart. The baby doesn’t like it when Mommy eats certain things."
Adrian’s little eyebrows furrowed with the kind of serious concern that looked almost comical on his four-year-old face. He tilted his head to one side, studying with those silver-blue eyes that were so much like his father’s.
"But Mommy, you threw up yesterday too. And the day before that." He held up his small fingers, counting carefully. "That’s three whole tis! Maybe the baby is just really picky about food?"
Despite feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, I couldn’t help but laugh at his earnest expression. "You know what, sweetheart? I think you might be onto sothing there."
"Maybe the baby would like pancakes better than toast," Adrian suggested, his face lighting up with the kind of innocent logic that only a four-year-old could possess. "I an, who doesn’t like pancakes? They’re fluffy and sweet and you can put syrup on them and make smiley faces!"
He bounced on his toes with excitent, his dark curls bouncing with the movent. "And maybe we’re similar! Like, maybe the baby has good taste like ! I always choose the best snacks."
"That’s actually brilliant thinking," I said, reaching out to ruffle his already ssy hair. "Want to help make so? We could make them extra special for the baby."
Adrian’s entire face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really? Can I crack the eggs again? I promise I’ll be more careful this ti! Last ti I only got a little bit of shell in the bowl, and Daddy said that was actually pretty good for a beginner."
I struggled to my feet. But the mont I stood up, the world tilted sideways and I imdiately regretted the quick movent as another wave of dizziness washed over .
Strong arms caught before I could sway too far, and I found myself pressed against Damien’s solid chest. His familiar scent—that warm combination of sandalwood and sothing indefinably masculine that was purely him—helped ground even as his concern radiated through our bond like a physical warmth.
"Whoa there," he murmured against my hair, his voice gentle but firm. "Easy does it."
"I’m okay," I protested weakly, though my legs felt like jelly beneath .
"No, you’re not," he said, his tone brooking no argunt as he swept up in his arms despite my halfhearted protests. "That’s it. Back to bed, right now. Lucas can handle the security briefing, and our little chef here can have cereal for breakfast."
"But Daddy!" Adrian piped up, his voice rising with distress. "Mommy promised we could make pancakes! And the baby wants pancakes, not boring old cereal!"
I felt terrible seeing the disappointnt on Adrian’s face. "I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really wanted to make them with you, but—"
"Then I’ll make pancakes," Damien interrupted, already carrying toward the stairs with the kind of careful gentleness that made my heart flutter despite my nausea. "I think I can handle breakfast for my family."
Adrian’s eyes went wide with a mixture of excitent and skepticism. "You know how to make pancakes, Daddy?"
"How hard can it be?" Damien said with the confidence of a man who had clearly never attempted to cook anything more complicated than toast. "Flour, eggs, milk, right? Mix it all together and cook it in a pan."
"And chocolate chips!" Adrian added eagerly, practically skipping alongside us as we headed upstairs. "Don’t forget the chocolate chips! Those are the most important part!"
Twenty minutes later, I was propped up in bed with several pillows behind my back, wearing one of Damien’s oversized t-shirts that slled like him and feeling marginally more human. The sounds of kitchen chaos drifted up from downstairs—Adrian’s excited chatter mixing with what sounded suspiciously like smoke alarm beeping, followed by Damien’s muttered curses and the sound of sothing clattering to the floor.
"Oh dear," I murmured to myself, fighting back a smile. Maybe I should have been more specific about the whole pancake-making process.
A few minutes later, I heard the distinct sound of the smoke alarm being removed from the wall, followed by Adrian’s delighted giggles and Damien’s exasperated sigh.
"Should I be worried?" I called out when Damien finally appeared in the doorway carrying a tray, his hair slightly disheveled and what looked like flour dusting his dark shirt.
"Define worried," he said with a rueful grin that made him look boyishly handso despite the chaos he’d clearly just survived. "The pancakes are... rustic. Very rustic. And we may need to replace the smoke detector. Possibly also the kitchen ceiling. But Adrian is extrely proud of his contribution to the cooking process."
I accepted the plate he offered, looking down at what could generously be called pancakes if you squinted and used a lot of imagination. They were oddly shaped—so roughly circular, others looking more like abstract art—slightly burnt around the edges, and appeared to have been liberally decorated with chocolate chips.
"They’re perfect," I said, and ant every word.
Adrian burst through the bedroom door at that exact mont, his face streaked with flour and what looked like syrup, his shirt decorated with what appeared to be the entire contents of our spice cabinet. His hair was standing up at odd angles, and he had a smudge of what might have been vanilla extract on his nose.
"Mommy! Mommy! Look what we made!" he announced proudly, scrambling onto the bed with the kind of boundless energy that only small children possessed. "I made you special pregnancy pancakes! They’re super duper special because I put extra love in them!"
I took a bite of the pancake, bracing myself for the worst, but to my complete surprise, my stomach didn’t imdiately rebel.
"These are absolutely delicious," I told Adrian, who practically glowed with pride.
"Really? Really truly?" he asked, bouncing again. "The baby likes them too, right? I can tell! They’re not making you sick like the toast did!"
It was true. For the first ti in days, I felt like I might actually be able to keep breakfast down. The nausea that had been my constant companion seed to have retreated, at least temporarily.
"I think you might be right, sweetheart," I said, taking another bite. "You might just be a pancake genius."
Adrian bead and carefully placed his small hand on my still-flat stomach, his expression growing serious and tender in that way that always surprised —monts when my little boy showed wisdom beyond his years.
"Hi baby," he whispered to my belly, his voice soft and sweet. "It’s , your big brother Adrian. Did you like the pancakes I made for you? I tried really hard to make them perfect."
My heart lted completely. "Adrian, that’s so sweet, but the baby can’t taste the pancakes yet."
"When will I be able to feel them move? Like, will they kick back if I poke your tummy gently?"
"Well," I said, stroking his dark curls, "you won’t feel yourself moving when you were in my tummy because you were the baby then. But in a few more months, when this baby gets bigger, you’ll be able to feel them moving when you put your hand right here."
"Will they be able to hear talking to them?" Adrian asked, his curiosity clearly piqued. "Like, if I tell them stories, will they listen? Can I teach them things before they’re even born?"
"They can probably hear you a little bit already," Damien said, moving to sit on Adrian’s other side, his large fra making the bed dip slightly.
Adrian’s eyes went wide with wonder. "Really? So they already know I’m their big brother?"
"I think they do," I said softly.
Adrian imdiately leaned down toward my stomach again, this ti speaking in a stage whisper that was probably louder than his normal voice. "Hi again, baby! It’s still , Adrian! I just wanted to make sure you know that I’m gonna be the best big brother ever! I’m gonna teach you SO many things!"
I felt tears spring to my eyes at the sweetness of the mont, overwheld by the pure love radiating from my little boy. This—this was exactly what I’d dread of during those long, lonely nights when I’d been pregnant with Adrian five years ago.
"Are you crying because you’re happy or because you’re sad?" Adrian asked, imdiately noticing my tears and reaching up with his small hand to gently wipe one away. His touch was so tender, so careful, like he was afraid I might break.
"These are definitely happy tears," I assured him, my voice thick with emotion.
I was laughing and crying at the sa ti, completely overwheld by how perfect this mont was, when Damien’s phone buzzed with an incoming call. His expression imdiately shifted as he glanced at the caller ID, the relaxed happiness on his face replaced by the alert focus of an Alpha who was never truly off duty.
"It’s Lucas," he said apologetically, his voice carrying a note of regret at having to interrupt our family ti. "I should probably take this."
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