JAYNAYAH

The nursery began with hammering.

At first, I thought the sound belonged to a dream. A dull, steady rhythm somewhere beyond the wall, softened by morning rain and the heavy warmth of Mace’s side missing from the bed.

I opened my eyes to an empty pillow.

The baby shifted low in my belly as if she disliked waking without him too.

“Traitor,” I murmured, pressing a hand over the curve.

She kicked once.

I sighed and pushed myself upright.

Pregnancy had made rising from bed an act of strategy. I had to turn, brace, breathe, and accept that my body no longer obeyed sudden commands. By the time I...