Page 163 of Born for Silk

“Pain?” The word threatens the room, his gaze tracking the tear as it slides down my cheek.

“No.” I flex my hand on his chest reassuringly. “Emotional, my king. That is all.”

The silence that follows could cut the room in two. His eyes seem unable to split from mine while we wait. I study his expression. It is not simply fear but helplessness. To see this titan of a man showing glimpses of helplessness makes me squirm…

Then…

A cry pierces the room.

And his fixed gaze darts toward his heir. His blue eyes become so wide I can practically see the immediate surge of affection flooding them.

Smiling through a heavy exhale, I peer down in time to see the doctor swaddling our baby in a purple cloth.

He presents the babe to Rome, and I smile, but Rome says, “No. Give the baby to Aster.”

A slither of sadness courses through me, but I ignore it. I understand. He will get there. He will be ready when he is ready.

I bundle the babe to my chest, my vision overwhelmed by a face made of ivory and cherries. And dark, open eyes, gazing up at me, reflecting the same wonder I feel inside all two billion of my heart cells.

“Hello…” I pause. “What’s the gender?”

“A boy.” The doctor announces. “The heir of The Cradle.”

His declaration raises hairs along my arms, sending skitters of significance through me.

I have Meaningful Purpose.

And you, sweet babe, are to reign.

Studying the flawless being, I shrug a little with an apology. “You’re not London. I don’t have a name for you yet, little babe.”

“Athens.”

I like it. I gaze at Rome, drawn to his choked tone, but a gasp fills my throat when I see glistening blue eyes, undeniably full of emotion. And I thought my king had no tear ducts.

Suddenly, my chest is so full it is hard to breathe. “Are you sure you don’t want to hold him, my king? He smells divine.”

He straightens, eyes lapping us. “No.”

“Please, Rome.”

“Are you done?”

I smile at Athens. “Never.”

“Then, no. I will wait.”

Uncertainty nests inside my mind, so I blink up at Rome again. Why is he being so withdrawn? His body is stiff, like a statue, one twitch and a crack will race through his stony centre.

But his eyes…

His eyes glisten with truth.

“Why?” I press. “Why won’t you hold him?”

And then he says, “I doubt I’ll want to let him go once he is in my arms, sweet creature. It is unbearable each first-light to let you go.”

Sighing, I couldn’t feel more… More anything. I barely recognise his voice. It’s deep and gushing, and I swallow, trying to force the happy tears down, blinking my blurring vision away. I want to see his face. Want to see him hold our son.

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