The moment the secret of the three was laid bare, Soren's internal architecture underwent a fundamental, almost dramatic shift.
He did not simply become an expectant father; he became a sentient, overprotective barricade.
It began on the very first morning of the following week.
Eris had reached for her silk robe, her fingers brushing the fabric as she prepared to rise and meet the day's duties.
She hadn't even fully stood when his voice drifted from the depths of the pillows, sounding less like a request and more like a decree from the high court.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Eris paused, one arm in a sleeve. "To dress, Soren. It is morning. That is what people do when the sun is up."
"Stay," he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that usually commanded battalions.
Eris arched a brow, turning back to the bed. "I beg your pardon?"
