quickly to his own end with a fierce command.
“A son, Kendra. Give. Me. A. Son.”
*
She lay with eyes closed listening to the sound of him moving stealthily about the room getting dressed to leave her. She’d managed brief snatches of sleep, but not enough to drive away the weariness and worry. Surrounded by the scent of freshly washed hair and skin, desire, more needy than lustful, stirred when he settled on the edge of the bed. Fearing what she’d say to him in this moment of weakness, she pretended sleep.
His hand settled warm and wide on her abdomen. For a long moment, he didn’t move. What would she see if she opened her eyes? Yearning, impatience? Or disappointment? Give me a son.
Finally, he leaned down, lips sketching across her cheek, whispering, “I love you, baby.” The edge of the mattress rocked, his weight lifting, her heart plunging. The door closed softly.
Her palm rested where his had lain, over the womb that would hold their future.
Words, pleas, arguments wouldn’t move him from whatever perilous course he’d chosen. But news of a pregnancy could. If she created that precious heir, he’d grab her up and whisk them both to the safety of their mountain compound, pulling their world in about them. The instinct to secure their line was the most powerful driving force known to their species, beginning with that season of madness in young males when consumed by the urge to mate in their fearsome natural form, and concluding with the primal drive to secure a bond.
Nothing meant more to Cale than fulfilling his legacy.
And nothing was what she’d provided.
It wasn’t because he hadn’t given her enough to work with. He’d sent a veritable SEAL team swimming upstream. Yet none of those determined warriors had planted its flag. Was it too soon to wonder if something was wrong?
Her female courses ran erratically, just like her life. She’d almost given up when they finally made an appearance late in her adolescence. Then they visited sporadically or not at all. Early emotional trauma was to blame but shouldn’t hinder natural reproduction. That’s what she’d been told. Shouldn’t didn’t carry the same certainty as wouldn’t. Had Bram Terriot managed to have the last laugh after all?
What if the problem wasn’t hers, but with her bonded mate?
It had long been rumored that Bram’s mistress Martine had provided his rutting sons with some holistic concoction to keep them from scattering their plentiful seed in underserving soil. What if, in order to protect her own son’s inheritance, she’d turned contraception into impotency?
Kendra wouldn’t believe that. Couldn’t.
In order to save Cale’s life, she needed to conceive.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alain Babineau’s idea of lunch was not what Cale expected.
They met in a tiny restaurant intriguingly named Daisy Duke’s. Booth and table seating was fairly full, leading straight to an open kitchen where steam rose from various pans, and staff dodged around one another. The detective had already claimed a booth near the back where he could face the door. Flashing his smile, he waved Cale over.
“Took the liberty of ordering for us. Was surprised by the invite.”
“Gotta eat.” Cale slid into the booth, a bit uncomfortable having the room behind him but trusting his brother-in-law to have his back.
A waitress wearing the prerequisite shorty-shorts approached the table carrying a large kettle. Cale watched, bemused, as the detective spread papers out on the tabletop to receive the dumped contents of the pot.
A heap of bright red bugs with hard shells and all sorts of evil looking legs, feelers and pinchers spewed across the paper. Uttering a startled oath, Cale lunged back, rising up and nearly climbing onto his seat.
“What the hell are those?”
“Lunch,” Babineau replied with a grin. “Crawfish boil. When in Rome . . .”
On closer suspicious examination, Cale discovered the crustaceans weren’t beetles but more
“A son, Kendra. Give. Me. A. Son.”
*
She lay with eyes closed listening to the sound of him moving stealthily about the room getting dressed to leave her. She’d managed brief snatches of sleep, but not enough to drive away the weariness and worry. Surrounded by the scent of freshly washed hair and skin, desire, more needy than lustful, stirred when he settled on the edge of the bed. Fearing what she’d say to him in this moment of weakness, she pretended sleep.
His hand settled warm and wide on her abdomen. For a long moment, he didn’t move. What would she see if she opened her eyes? Yearning, impatience? Or disappointment? Give me a son.
Finally, he leaned down, lips sketching across her cheek, whispering, “I love you, baby.” The edge of the mattress rocked, his weight lifting, her heart plunging. The door closed softly.
Her palm rested where his had lain, over the womb that would hold their future.
Words, pleas, arguments wouldn’t move him from whatever perilous course he’d chosen. But news of a pregnancy could. If she created that precious heir, he’d grab her up and whisk them both to the safety of their mountain compound, pulling their world in about them. The instinct to secure their line was the most powerful driving force known to their species, beginning with that season of madness in young males when consumed by the urge to mate in their fearsome natural form, and concluding with the primal drive to secure a bond.
Nothing meant more to Cale than fulfilling his legacy.
And nothing was what she’d provided.
It wasn’t because he hadn’t given her enough to work with. He’d sent a veritable SEAL team swimming upstream. Yet none of those determined warriors had planted its flag. Was it too soon to wonder if something was wrong?
Her female courses ran erratically, just like her life. She’d almost given up when they finally made an appearance late in her adolescence. Then they visited sporadically or not at all. Early emotional trauma was to blame but shouldn’t hinder natural reproduction. That’s what she’d been told. Shouldn’t didn’t carry the same certainty as wouldn’t. Had Bram Terriot managed to have the last laugh after all?
What if the problem wasn’t hers, but with her bonded mate?
It had long been rumored that Bram’s mistress Martine had provided his rutting sons with some holistic concoction to keep them from scattering their plentiful seed in underserving soil. What if, in order to protect her own son’s inheritance, she’d turned contraception into impotency?
Kendra wouldn’t believe that. Couldn’t.
In order to save Cale’s life, she needed to conceive.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alain Babineau’s idea of lunch was not what Cale expected.
They met in a tiny restaurant intriguingly named Daisy Duke’s. Booth and table seating was fairly full, leading straight to an open kitchen where steam rose from various pans, and staff dodged around one another. The detective had already claimed a booth near the back where he could face the door. Flashing his smile, he waved Cale over.
“Took the liberty of ordering for us. Was surprised by the invite.”
“Gotta eat.” Cale slid into the booth, a bit uncomfortable having the room behind him but trusting his brother-in-law to have his back.
A waitress wearing the prerequisite shorty-shorts approached the table carrying a large kettle. Cale watched, bemused, as the detective spread papers out on the tabletop to receive the dumped contents of the pot.
A heap of bright red bugs with hard shells and all sorts of evil looking legs, feelers and pinchers spewed across the paper. Uttering a startled oath, Cale lunged back, rising up and nearly climbing onto his seat.
“What the hell are those?”
“Lunch,” Babineau replied with a grin. “Crawfish boil. When in Rome . . .”
On closer suspicious examination, Cale discovered the crustaceans weren’t beetles but more
Similar Books
