The jokes stopped being jokes somewhere between the third month of pregnancy and the fourth.
Christabel didn't notice the shift. Or maybe she did and didn't care. She was too busy pushing, testing, seeing how far she could go before the monster she'd married finally snapped.
Damien noticed.
He noticed everything.
The way her voice changed when she mentioned Liam. The way her eyes glittered when she talked about "what if." The way she touched her stomach when she said things she knew would hurt him, like she was using their daughter as a shield.
He noticed.
He didn't say anything.
He was trying to be patient. Trying to be understanding. Trying to be the man she claimed to want.
But patience had limits.
And he was running out of his.
---
"You're quiet," she said one night.
They were in bed. His hand was on her stomach. The baby was kicking.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About us."
"What about us?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"About whether you're happy."
She turned her head. Looked at him.
"I'm happy."
"Are you?"
"Damien—"
"Because the things you've been saying. The jokes. The tests." He sat up. Looked at her. "They don't sound like happiness."
She sat up too.
The sheet fell away from her body.
"You're reading too much into things."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me. Right now. Tell me you're happy. Tell me you're not bored. Tell me you're not thinking about Liam or anyone else."
"I'm happy."
"You're lying."
---
The word hung in the air.
Christabel's face went still.
"I'm not lying."
"You are." He stood up. Walked to the window. "I've been watching you for months. Watching you push. Watching you test. Watching you see how much I can take."
"And how much can you take?"
He turned to face her.
"Less than I thought."
---
She got out of bed.
Walked to him.
Pressed her body against his.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For pushing. For testing. For being... difficult."
"You're not difficult. You're terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of this." He touched her stomach. "Of us. Of being happy when you've spent your whole life waiting for the other shoe to drop."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"Maybe I am," she said finally.
"Maybe you're what?"
"Terrified." She looked up at him. "I'm terrified of losing you. Of losing her. Of waking up one day and realizing that none of this was real."
"It's real."
"Is it?" She stepped back. "Because sometimes I look at you and I don't recognize you. The softness. The patience. The way you hold back."
"I hold back because I love you."
"The man I fell in love with didn't hold back."
"The man you fell in love with didn't have a daughter to protect."
---
She flinched.
Not because his words were harsh. Because they were true.
"You think I don't want to protect her?" she asked.
"I think you don't know how."
"I killed a man with my bare hands."
"That was before." He stepped closer. "Before she was inside you. Before every fight became a risk. Before every enemy became a threat to her as well as you."
"So what do I do? Hide? Pretend I'm not who I am?"
"You adapt." He touched her face. "You learn to fight differently. You learn to be patient. You learn that love isn't just about taking. It's about protecting."
"I know how to protect."
"Do you?" He looked at her. "Because right now, you're protecting yourself from the one thing that's ever made you happy. And you're using our daughter as an excuse."
---
She slapped him.
Not hard. Not soft. Somewhere in between.
The sound echoed off the walls.
Damien didn't move.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"No."
"Then hit me again."
She raised her hand.
Lowered it.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not angry at you." She pressed her hands to her face. "I'm angry at myself. For being scared. For being weak. For being... pregnant."
"You're not weak."
"I can't fight. I can't shoot. I can't do any of the things that made me feel like myself."
"You're growing a human being."
"I'm growing a target." She dropped her hands. Looked at him. "Every day, I get bigger. Slower. More vulnerable. And every day, the enemies who want to hurt you get closer."
"Let them come."
"They'll come for her, Damien. Not for me. For her. Our daughter. The one thing we can't protect."
---
He pulled her into his arms.
Held her tight.
"Listen to me," he said.
"I'm listening."
"Our daughter is not a target. She's a reason. A reason to fight. A reason to win. A reason to burn the world if we have to."
"You can't burn the world."
"Watch me."
She pulled back.
Looked at him.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"I love you so much it terrifies me."
"Good." He kissed her forehead. "It should."
---
That night, they didn't make love.
They held each other.
And for a few hours — a few precious, perfect hours — the weapons between them turned back into words.
But words could wound too.
And Christabel was very, very good with words.