Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Awareness dawned slowly as Alistair woke, first of the soft brush of skin against his cheek, then the tickling feathering of breath against his ear. The scent of roses filled his nose as he breathed in, and the steady beat of a heart beneath his palm anchored him to the waking world. Every morning he woke like this felt like a gift and the awe never waned, no matter how routine their lives had become following the death of the archdemon and the end of the Fifth Blight. For too long he had assumed he would be waking up alone for the rest of his life, but there were times lately when he couldn't even remember what it was like to be lonely.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," Elona greeted, her voice soft next to his ear.

A chuckle escaped him; he hadn't even opened his eyes but she had sensed the shift in his breathing. Instinctively he nuzzled into her warmth, sliding his nose down her cheek to the hollow of her neck. In response she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to the crown of his head. Before long there would be servants bustling around the room, bringing breakfast and preparing baths, setting out clothes and giving him things to do. Duty would draw them apart for hours. But not yet.

Instead of greeting her with words, he pressed his lips to her neck. Her laughter filled the room as his facial hair tickled her, and when his teeth scraped beneath her ear it broke off to a contented sigh. He trailed his hand down her side, over the little swell of her abdomen and down her thigh. She turned her head to capture his lips with hers in a languid kiss that woke up every part of him. When he pulled the satin sheets over them, cocooning them into their own world, she smiled against his lips and raked her fingers through his hair.

It would be a very good morning.

Chapter Text

The Gnawed Noble was rowdy—a mercenary company had secured a sizable bounty and were buying drinks for those gathered. They sang a bawdy, out of tune rendition of one of Andraste's songs that would make a Chantry sister blush, the cacophany filling the tavern with joviality. With coin flowing, the waitresses were in high spirits, all smiles and eagerness, but Alistair waved them off as he grabbed his tankard from the bar. He wasn't there for the party.

Tucked in the back, near the rooms, Elona pressed herself as far to one end of a bench as she could. A man droned on about his endeavors, his gaudy, embroidered tunic pointing toward a noble's son who had come to get some "flavor" from the common side of town. As Alistair watched, Elona smiled and nodded politely, but her eyes scanned the tavern for him every so often, looking for help. He was more than happy to oblige.

"There you are," he said as he approached from behind.

He stopped her turning toward him with a hand on her shoulder, his fingers trailing along her collarbone to her neck. With gentle pressure along her jaw he angled her up toward him. There was relief in her eyes when he caught her gaze, and his lips quirked into a grin as he leaned down between them and claimed her mouth in a searing kiss. Beside them the man cleared his throat and excused himself, and she made a small noise in the back of her throat when Alistair parted her lips to deepen the kiss.

When she pushed herself away from him her lips were red and her dark eyes sparkling. "You were held up?"

"Eamon," he explained. "Did you get the room?"

Once she stood she pulled the key from her sash. The back of the bench bit into his hip as he leaned forward to kiss her again. Arl Eamon's estate was large enough that they could find somewhere to slip off to, but the Gnawed Noble afforded them more privacy and less of a chance he'd be called into a meeting about politics or etiquette.

"I ordered dinner." She leaned in, her lips near his ear. "We have an hour until it's ready."

The look she gave him when she leaned away from him made his blood run hot. To think he'd gone two decades without the touch of a woman, but in the span of a few months he had become addicted to one. He couldn't get enough of her—the taste of her lips, the sound of his name on her tongue, the feel of her skin against his. Eamon would call her - had called her - a distraction, but even the Arl knew better than to try to keep them apart.

"I can work with that," he grinned, and she mirrored it despite the flush that crept up her neck. "Shall we, my lady?"

Chapter Text

It was a relief not to wake up face down on the stone floor of the Circle when Elona came to after her trip into the Fade. The beds in Redcliffe castle were far nicer, the silk sheets cool against her skin. Not only that, the silence was peaceful, broken only by the soft snores of the mabari curled against her side. After she stretched she rubbed her fingers through Hamish’s short, brown fur, but his only response was to flick an ear in her direction before resuming his nap. It was tempting to join him, but then she turned toward the light slanting in through the window and she realized she wasn’t alone.

In a chair near the bed, Alistair slept. Quietly she slid out of the plush bed and collected a blanket from the foot of it. She managed to loosely drape it over him before he sleepily blinked up at her and ran a hand over the scruffy stubble around his mouth.

After fighting the dead in Redcliffe and the carnage of Kinloch - the pain of seeing her home destroyed and the aching loss of a friend - Elona was so tired of denying herself something that might actually make her happy. As her brother had said weeks ago, they were beset by danger daily; they were owed comfort where they could take it. Going into the Fade twice and succeeding both times had been a prodigious boost to her confidence—enough to do just that.

She shared his smile and sat back on the edge of the bed and Hamish rolled onto his belly to try to charm scratches from her when she looked over her shoulder at where she'd been sleeping. “There was plenty of room.”

It was a joke, it had to be; the corner of his mouth lifted in a grin and he prepared to laugh it off, but the look she gave him made his heart jump into his throat instead. She peered at him through her long lashes in a way that seemed almost coy, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Suddenly he was much more aware of her, and he sat up straighter.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Maybe,” she answered softly, shrugging a shoulder. "Do you want it to be?"

“Wow,” he breathed. Again he scrubbed his hands over his face; it felt real enough. “This has got to be a dream.”

Unbraided, her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and she did her best to tuck the strands that fell into her eyes behind her ears. "I've had enough of the Fade."

A flush crept up her neck and he was certain his own face was ten shades of crimson. They had been dancing around their attraction since they'd first met at Ostagar. She had walked through the Fade to save the arl's family when all of the others had pushed for easier solutions, something that could have ended terribly for her. Maybe it was finally time to stop dancing and tell her just how much that had meant to him.

"I, uh—" And then he remembered, one of the reasons he hadn't told her yet was because his tongue tied itself into knots around her. If he wanted to convey how he felt, he might need to do it with actions.

When he stood, the blanket she’d so recently placed on him pooled at his feet. He felt painfully awkward as he took a step toward her, and then another; he wanted to give her plenty of time to change her mind or get away from him if she wanted. Instead her fists curled into the sheets on either side of her and she craned her neck to raise her face toward him. His heart hammered in his ears as he lifted a hand to her face, and her eyes fluttered closed as he cupped her cheek.

Just as he leaned down to kiss her, Hamish rolled toward them and his body weight pushed her forward. Alistair's lips met her brow awkwardly as her chin hit his chest, and they both laughed at the interruption. It seemed par for the course for them, but he took the chance to wrap his arms around her instead.

“You are a very bad dog,” he said to Hamish, but his tone was light and only slightly exasperated. The mabari whined and did his best to look guilty. “Next time I’m locking you out so you have to sleep with mean old Morrigan.”

Alistair moved to sit beside her instead and sighed as he ran his hand through his hair. Just when he’d finally gathered the nerve…

But then her hand brushed his as she stood and pressed close to him, her hip brushing his thigh as their positions reversed. When her hands cupped his cheeks his breath caught, her fingertips soft as they brushed over his skin. He had thought the moment had passed them by once again, but she tilted his head up toward hers. For a moment her breath brushed his lips and when she glanced at him for permission, he gave the briefest nod because he knew if he tried to speak he would absolutely ruin it all.

As her eyes slipped closed, her lips brushed his–testing, teasing–and then she drew back far enough to meet his eyes. He was aware his hands were shaking when he lifted one to her neck and drew her back for another kiss, the other anchored on her hip, and this time she tilted her head so he could slide his mouth fully against hers. Every inch of his body felt electrified as their lips melted together–once, twice, and then he realized he’d forgotten to breathe.

He pulled away only far enough to press his forehead against hers, brow to brow and nose to nose, and they held one another close as they caught their breath.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," he admitted, and she bit her lip to try to hide her smile.

"I'm glad you did." She ran her hands through his hair and he understood why cats purred. "Alistair—"

"Wait," he interjected, "before I turn into a bumbling idiot again… I care about you, Elle. Not just because you went out of your way to save the arl's family, and not just because you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and not just because—"

"Alistair." She traced the shell of his ear and his mouth snapped closed before he could keep rambling. "I feel the same way."

"Oh."

Warmth flooded through him as she laughed against his lips. When she started to pull away, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back for another kiss. She hummed against his lips and opened her mouth to slide her tongue against his lower lip, and he obediently gave her access. It was awkward at first, but once he got the hang of it and their tongues met, it felt like he might combust at any moment—in the best way.

As his tongue explored her mouth, his hand slid down her back, mapping every bone and muscle. Normally he would question if he should touch her hindquarters, but his mind was blissfully empty as his palm slid down her body. She made a little noise as he did, and the fire that had spread over his skin started to pool in his belly. If he were dreaming he'd let her press him back into the mattress and learn how their bodies fit together, but that would be too far too soon in reality. While she’d invited him into the bed, he knew he wasn’t ready for more, no matter how fast they’d gone from kissing to kissing or how amazing it felt that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Sensing it was going too far, she pressed light, soft kisses along his jaw as he ran his hands along her arms and wrapped her hands in his. Alistair really couldn't remember the last time he'd been that happy, certainly not since Ostagar, and it felt like his heart might burst.

“Still think you’re dreaming?”

"No, not anymore." He leaned back and feathered kisses over her knuckles. "You're a dream come true."

Chapter Text

"Just for an hour," Alistair begged, his hand rubbing circles into Elona's back.

They stood beside their son's crib, the tiny infant sleeping soundly within. He was almost two months old, his head a mess of wispy blonde curls, and Elona had been first on bed rest and then on confinement, but she was finally free of it all. Better yet, little Duncan had only just fallen asleep which meant they likely had two or three hours before he would wake.

"I have something I want to show you," he continued, "and you deserve some fresh air."

"We'd be leaving Denerim?" Her brow furrowed in concern, not yet ready to be so far apart from her child.

"Well, no," he admitted. "You're right, scratch that, there'll be no fresh air, but you will get to see more than these boring stone walls."

Her lips pursed as she considered. "Just an hour?"

"As soon as you want to leave, we'll come back."

With a soft sigh she nodded and he pressed a kiss to her cheek. As he readied a carriage - and the inevitable knight or two - she tamed her hair into a braid and found her boots and cloak. Servants had tried to offer her dresses but she had waved them off and kept to her simple shift. It might be plain by noble standards, but it was comfortable and parts of her body still felt strange.

Alistair helped her up into the carriage slowly, handling her with extra care since the birth of their child. "I'm not going to break," she promised him as she settled on the bench next to him. "I may not be ready to fight an archdemon, but I'm fine otherwise."

He twined their fingers together as the carriage began to move and his jaw worked as he tried to keep himself from blurting out that he'd seen something large come out of something small and didn't know how she could already be fine. The whole birthing process had been an experience he'd never forget. Elona had done an amazing job by his standards, and he'd done his best to be supportive, but the best part was the end, when they held Duncan - covered in goo - for the first time. In that moment he had never loved her more.

As they moved through the city she pulled back the curtain to look out at the streets and adjusted her chest, a flicker of pain crossing her eyes. The city was still largely in disarray, but it hadn't even been a year since the Battle of Denerim and the fall of the archdemon. He probably should have been looking to see how well the clean-up had gone and how far along the repair was, but his eyes had been drawn to her décolletage and it was hard to look away.

"Where are—" She turned back toward him and caught him staring.

Clearing his throat, he looked away. "It isn't far."

They came to a stop before she could ask for more specifics, and she peered back out of the open window while they waited to be let out. From what she could tell they were still in the palace district on the south side of the river, but she could see little more than scarred buildings and the flush of sunset painting the sky.

When they stepped out of the carriage she recognized the plaza they were in and the puzzle pieces fell into place in her mind. As she looked around she remembered the day they had been there last, when Denerim was besieged by Darkspawn and the archdemon rained fire from the sky. Just as they had arrived in the same place, a body had come crashing down to the ground and Elona almost unraveled from the grief, not just for the man whose life had been lost but for the implications of it.

The Wardens had decided that the senior-most Warden would strike the killing blow on the archdemon. With Riordin dead at their feet, the task moved on to Alistair. Even the memory of the feeling of devastation that had coursed through her veins made her nauseated and she did her best to hide it.

"It's all right," he said softly, wrapping his arms around her and giving her a squeeze.

Once her breathing returned to normal he released her and steered her toward the spot Riordin had died. Instead of cobblestones, the area was covered with carved stone. The bottom was a simple pedestal, and sitting atop it was a large griffon. At the legendary beast's legs, different weapons - a bow, sword, staff, crossbow, great sword - were piled beneath its outstretched paw, representing the many lives lost among all the peoples of Ferelden.

"I had it made to honor the people we lost," he explained as she walked around the statue and took in all the little details. "But I put it here as a reminder."

"You want to remember the moment I thought I was going to lose you?" She asked, the memory of that pain sharpening her words.

"I want to remember to be the man I was then," he continued. "A man willing to risk everything for what he loves."

She loved his sense of honor, but she had come far too close to losing him. When silence stretched between them, he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her into his side. The last time they had been there together it had been heart wrenching, but he hoped he could bury that memory between better ones.

"I just wanted you to see it before the dedication ceremony so I could have a woman's opinion."

"It's beautiful," she assured him. "You did well."

"Thank the Maker." A bit of the stress he carried in his shoulders relaxed and he pressed his lips to her temple.

"I pray it's another four hundred years before anyone else has to make that decision." She turned and pressed a kiss to his cheek, breathing him in.

"That makes two of us."

Chapter Text

Debris from a tower the dragon crashed through bounced off Alistair’s shield as he covered their retreat near the palace. Moments later, Riordin’s body crashed into the cobblestones of the plaza they had begun to cross, stopping them in their tracks. They had seen so much death in the last year, but seeing the senior Grey Warden’s body break across the ground was one of the worst. Alistair rushed to his side with Elona trailing behind while the other two focused on securing the area. The archdemon’s blood was still wet on the Warden's blades, but there was nothing that could be done for him save to close his empty eyes and utter a prayer for his soul to meet the Maker’s side.

When Alistair’s eyes met hers over the body, they both knew what it meant: Alistair had become the most senior Grey Warden in the city and the responsibility of felling the archdemon had fallen to him. Elona shook her head, trying to deny the reality that stared them both in the face, and before she could move away from him, Alistair grabbed her wrist. They only had a moment to accept what lay ahead—a moment to say goodbye.

Alistair’s hand found her cheek, his gauntlet wiping blood and grime across her face, but she let him draw her lips to his. He could taste the salt of her tears, feel the way her lips trembled and her chest heaved with sobs. As much as he wanted to hold her and comfort her until her tears dried, time was not on their side.

"I love you," he said, pulling back so his eyes could meet hers. There was a fierce light in them as he said it because he needed her to know the words were the truest he had ever spoken.

Her mouth opened as she tried to echo his words, but all that came out was another sob. Alistair leaned in to kiss her brow and the tip of her nose in silent apology. It was the only bit of comfort they had time for, but no words, touch, or gesture would ever be enough to soothe the way her heart had shattered in her chest.

Again he pulled her against him, committing every part of her to memory. When he went, he didn't want to think of anything but her—the smell of her hair, the taste of her tongue, the feel of her fingers dancing over his skin. Then he could die happy knowing he'd left her a better world.

"I will always love you," she managed, her voice shaky and watery.

“We’ve got company,” Kallian called back to them.

He pressed a kiss to her hair before they stepped away from one another, and as one they touched their hands to their hearts - their shared signal, a silent oath of love - before they turned back to the fray.

Chapter Text

The next time Alistair opened his eyes, Elona was watching him. He had slid down the headboard in his sleep and ended up in an awkward slump, which explained the terrible crick in his neck, or maybe that was the days of marching and the hours of fighting for his life. At least he'd stripped off his armor before he'd climbed into bed with her. As much as he wanted to joke about everything that happened, her eyes were full of fear and uncertainty, and when she lifted a hand to his face it shook.

“Is this real?” She finally whispered, and her voice broke. “Are you–”

“Still here,” he assured her. “Still alive.”

“How?” She ran her hand over his face, his neck, his arm—taking stock of every inch of him.

For a moment he closed his eyes, reveling in the touch he had feared he might never feel again. As he'd struck the final blow to Urthemiel, he had prayed that she would be left with a world worthy of her, that she would find love and fulfillment in his absence. If the Maker would let him, he would dedicate his afterlife to that end. But when he woke next it wasn't at the Maker's side, it was on a rooftop surrounded by faces that weren't hers.

When he'd seen her across the body of the archdemon, crumpled against the rooftop lifelessly, he had truly believed she had found a way to sacrifice herself in his place. Dread had paralyzed him at first, his blood running cold. There were so many people around him and so few around her and it was wrong—everything was wrong.

There was a pulse, he'd been assured, but she was so pale that it had been hard to believe. Every healer had been called once he settled her into his new bed in the royal suite, and every one had assured him that it was exhaustion. Then Warden Cousland had shown up and confessed to Morrigan's ritual and everything had started to fall into place.

“I wondered that, too. Turns out Morrigan had a creepy sex ritual with your brother and made a vessel for the old god’s soul to go into. Will she have a baby? A dragonling? A demon? We’ll never know because she disappeared.” He sighed-–it still annoyed him no matter how much he thought about it. “If you’re thinking, ‘wow, that’s messed up.’ I agree. Completely.”

“Then they knew that no one was going to die, but they didn’t tell us?”

“Arran said he wasn’t sure it would work and Morrigan swore him to secrecy.” He threw his hands up. “The evil witch just had fun seeing us suffer.”

One hand on his heart and one with his blade poised to strike the killing blow, her brows knit as she thought back to the moment he’d plunged his sword into the archdemon and they’d both been certain he was going to die. The light that had poured out of the dragon had been so intense it had felt as if it consumed her, body and soul. And that had been fine with her; she wanted no part of a world that didn't have him in it.

“When I woke up, I thought maybe this was what it was like, to be at the Maker’s side. I’d thought, ‘take me with him,’ and then I was here.”

Alistair sat up and stretched his neck with a groan. The bed moved behind him as she followed suit, and then her hands were kneading his neck and he forgot about what he was going to say. “Elona,” he breathed her name as her fingers raked through his hair; she knew exactly what she was doing to him. “We should really talk about that.”

“I don’t want to talk,” she told him, her lips brushing his ear. “You're alive; I just want you.”

When her lips met his neck, he slid out of the bed and away from her. If he looked at her, he knew he would cave, so he paced to the windows that lined the wall and faced out toward the city where pyres still burned. The city would be mourning for weeks, rebuilding for years, but the people of Ferelden would have a chance to do so with the Blight ended.

“You weren’t moving,” he said at last. “I got up, and you weren’t moving. I thought you’d found a way to make the sacrifice instead of me, and I wanted to revive you just so I could kill you myself. I was devastated and furious and I couldn’t breathe.”

Quietly she padded across the room, and wrapped her arms around him. For a moment she just held him, her cheek pressed between his shoulderblades.  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Morrigan got to you first,” he continued. Twisting in her arms, he cupped her face in his hand, his thumb brushing over the delicate curve of her cheekbone. “Everyone said, ‘don’t worry, she’s just exhausted.’ But somehow she knew, and then Wynne confirmed it-you’re pregnant.”

“I–what?” For a moment her mouth hung open, the news taking her by surprise as it had him. Emotions flashed through her eyes—surprise, wonder, joy, doubt. She sat back, hand on her stomach, and her brows drew down in concern again. "Did the ritual—"

"No," he said quickly, then realized he hadn't even considered it. Wynne had said it had been months, not days, and surely she would know. Right? His eyes narrowed as he considered it, and then he shook his head decisively. "No, the old-fashioned way."

Relief washed over her, and then a flush. Eamon had more or less encouraged such a thing - not that they had waited for his approval - but she remembered the severe look the arl had given her as he appraised her. It was obvious he found her lacking.

“I understand you’ve won the heart of our future king,” he had said, voice devoid of warmth. “As a mage, you understand you cannot currently hold the titles of queen or consort, but if you’re willing to learn alongside him, you can still be of great help to him. And if you’re able to bear his children, all the better. He must secure his throne with heirs.”

Perhaps he would find her a little less lacking when next they met.

“They're sure? They could already tell?”

“Wynne said it was early, but she seemed pretty sure.” His hand covered hers on her stomach. “Please tell me you’re as terrified as I am.”

She laughed and nodded. "Mortified."

“Oh, good,” he sighed in relief. “I thought it was silly, seeing as we just killed a dragon and stopped a blight, but the thought of becoming a father? Wow.”

“You were also terrified of becoming a king,” she pointed out, moving their hands from her stomach to his heart.

“Well, true,” he conceded. “I guess there’s that. We have a few months to figure out how to actually be parents. Maybe we should start with a puppy.”

The excitement in her eyes when he mentioned a puppy made him laugh. “Can I get a mabari?”

“I don’t know, do you think the palace is big enough?” He teased her and brushed her hair back from her face. “I think there’s a royal kennel somewhere, you can have them all.”

She surged forward and peppered his face in kisses. “I knew I made you king for a reason.”

“Elle, you’re carrying my child,” he told her, his eyes warm and sincere. “I’d give you all of Ferelden if I could.”

Chapter Text

Denerim was a flurry of activity, colorful banners hung and vendors out in full force. A year had passed since the Battle of Denerim, Ferelden had a new king, and the city was rejuvenated—not fully healed from the archdemon's onslaught, but getting there. Festivities had been in full swing since the morning as the citizens celebrated the joining of peoples to overcome evil.

In the Chantry's grand cathedral, most of the Landsmeet had gathered to celebrate another precious miracle. Standing atop the dais alongside Grand Cleric Elemena was the new king in all his regalia, and at his side a raven-haired woman holding a squirming baby—Alistair and Elona. She rocked him on her hip as the Grand Cleric gave a speech, but the king's attention remained intent on the two beside him, tuning out the old woman's droning.

Even from afar it was easy to see the baby's blonde curls, and though he was still small he kept his big eyes trained on his father, particularly the fur-lined cloak he wore. A few times he reached for the hem of it with pudgy fingers, and every time it darted just out of reach, both delighting and frustrating the infant. When he'd had enough and his face began to scrunch with the threat of a whine, Alistair offered him a hand instead, and the child was all too happy to have fingers to clamp down on.

Elona tried to remain passive and serious during such an important ceremony, but the sight of Alistair eagerly letting their son slobber on his dress gloves made her smile. Eamon was likely beside himself at the lack of decorum, but when she peeked into the crowd they seemed as smitten with the new king as she was. He was unlike any king they'd had before, raised far from court and its machinations, but when Ferelden had needed him, he had stepped up.

"Your Majesty," the Grand Cleric prompted and Alistair offered Elona a little smile before he ushered her forward with a hand against the small of her back.

Together they held their child as ash was dabbed onto his forehead, a facsimile of the sacred ashes so recently recovered.

"In the name of the Maker and holy Andraste," Elemena said, "we dedicate this child, Prince Duncan Theirin, son of King Alistair Theirin, that he may serve Ferelden with their blessing."

After, Elona gave him a small nod and Alistair lifted his son into the air, presenting him to the nobles and other gathered onlookers. The cathedral was full to bursting, the doors thrown open with people gathered in the courtyard beyond. Applause filled the hall, echoing off the stone walls like thunder, and the bells tolled in celebration.

When the noise startled the baby and he began to fuss, Alistair cradled him against his chest and looked back at Elona, brows drawn in concern. She hurried to his side and motioned for him to turn away from the audience for a moment, and when he did she wove a silencing spell around him as she pressed her lips to his forehead.

"Me next," Alistair joked, swooping down to press his lips to hers before he turned back to those assembled.

Nobles lined up to greet the heir to the throne, and Elona moved out of the way. Without the noise to bother him, little Duncan played for a time with the clasps of Alistair's ceremonial armor before he dozed. Alistair held the babe with one arm while nobles clasped his wrist in congratulations, and Elona bit her lip and tried not to think of how many people were touching her son.

By midday the cathedral was emptied, the nobles moved to the palace for a formal lunch, and the king and his mistress moved to a carriage. Elona took their baby and did her best to wipe him down with her sleeve and a touch of magic, and then she held him up to the windows for the people clamoring at their coach to see. When they saw him they cheered and Alistair chuckled.

"Just a few months old and already so loved," he mused, his hand smoothing down the fine hair on Duncan's forehead that already refused to stay down.

"With an heir the people don't have to worry about another war for the crown," she said, echoing Eamon's words. "He embodies the hope that the next generation will live in a Ferelden that doesn't know strife."

"But first, he gets to be a child," Alistair insisted. "Scraped knees and stories of heroes, playing in the mud and going to bed with a full belly and the knowledge he's loved—that's all I want for him."

"Then that's what he'll get." She smiled and looked from Duncan to Alistair, and he lowered his head to rest against hers.

"When can we have another?" He teased, his voice dropping as he ran his nose along the edge of her ear.

She hummed in thought, laughter escaping her when his lips moved to her neck, just as Duncan began to fuss. "When he starts sleeping through the night."