“No.” He shakes his head and smiles. “It won’t. I saw this conversation. I have been finding it hard to convince myself that the reasons we keep the babes safe apply to you…”
I lift my chin.
“The Estate is the safest place in The Cradle,” he states matter-of-factly. “So… For the babes born in The Estate, I do not see why we cannot run a test. See if it is feasible and does not interrupt the flow of production and procedures. We can alter some protocols, add extra measures, extra Guards, and allow the Silk Girls from your Collective visitation rights once a day to spend with the babies.”
That will make her smile.
“And in your case.” He eyes me. “As the heir is known, the safest place is by his father’s side. I cannot disagree. This is what I can offer you. What I will approve, no, support…”
But then, his pause thickens the air.
“In exchange for something for myself.”
Of course.
“I want a succession.”
And there it is. His motivation. For fucking the redheaded Silk Girl in The Circle. For his leniency with Aster.
He premeditated this.
Fucker.
Kong’s sarcastic inference thunders in my mind. “What a successful campaign, then? It couldn’t have gone any better if Cairo had planned it himself.”
Cairo must have seen Aster and me in the Parlour the day we met. Paid the Endigo to flip the van, take her, and hold her…
Knowing full well that I was at Breaker Ledge—that I would want to continue my bloodshed from the war, because… He. Knows. Me.
Fuck.
And when I didn’t want to breed with her, when I spoke of keeping her as a plaything, he pushed me, fuelling me with jealousy by threatening to give her to another, and made me claim her…
He left The Estate.
Left me to fall in love.
I shake my head, fisting my hands at my sides, reeling in this knowledge.
As always, I do not know whether to be impressed, angry, or thrust my fucking fist through his chest cavity and draw out his pumping heart.
As if reading my thoughts, he says, “You have Aster. Without me, you would not. So when I die, I want my heirs to inherit my Trade.”
Never in the history of The Cradle has a Trade Master been granted this; it is incomprehensible. Dangerous. The most powerful person in the game of chess is the player. In The Cradle’s present state, The Trade Master is appointed by the lords, keeping us all connected and valued. He is then bestowed phenomenal control—all The Cradle’s secrets and the protection of the Shadows.
Luckily, the player changes.
Fortunately, a new Trade Master can be appointed after a natural death. This keeps order in the land. Balance. It keeps us all in check.
He isn’t asking for an heir.
He isn’t asking for a legacy.
He is asking for The Cradle.
I stare at him, my hand twitching to pull that beating organ through his ribcage and watch the blood spurt to the pulse of his dying heart.
“We are twin pillars,” he says, pressing. “The Crown and The Trade. That does not change, Sire.”
With blood or bargain…
I grit my teeth. “I will speak with the lords. Bled, Medan, Turin Two. I will support your right to a legacy, and they will agree.”
“If they do not?”
My brows tighten. “They will.”
Cairo nods and turns, walking through the spacious laboratory toward the exit. He pauses with his hand on the sensor. A green light on the wall glows, prefacing a click from inside the security door.
He looks back at me, a smooth smile on his lips. The kind that offers no sentiment, merely confidence. “Did they tell you, Sire? I saved the eagle for you. Odio. He had a wisp of life left, enough for us…” His pause is heavy. “I authorised stem cell rehabilitation, as we did with your lung. We gifted him a titanium metatarsus and ulna and put him in an incubator. When your lung has been properly observed and approved, you will be ready to return to The Estate, and he will be ready to fly above you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Aster
Rome is alive.
He is recovering.
But it has been two weeks, and it feels like the days churn, and churn, and churn. Like I am waiting at a closed door, watching it for decades.
I believe the reports we are sent each day from the Trade-tower—he is breathing, he is awake, he will return soon—but my heart won’t settle until I see him with my own adoring eyes, until my fingers feel his muscles shudder, until his skin covers mine and radiates warmth…
I roll to the side of his bed, my silky robe sliding over my skin but tight around my swollen belly, and tuck my new book into the drawer.
Han gave it to me.
It is old. The text is small, and it reads like a poem. Odd. Lyrical. Some of the stories are fantastical, others meaningful or completely nonsensical.
Han told me that if I ever wanted to talk about the book, that I could ‘come home.’
To the abbey.
I look around Rome’s room.
But I am home.
There is a part in the book that reads, ‘Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day—’
I don’t know why, but that snippet reminds me of Rome. Of how he is healing. Day by day. Though, everything I read or see, reminds me of my king. Today, I saw his powerful body striding toward me when I glanced at the courtyard gate during the hour Daisy, Blossom, Ana, and I were given to play with Ana’s baby, Cardiff.
I hear his possessive growls each night when I touch myself, failing miserably to reach the pleasure he offers me.
And I sense him inside my womb.
In the Medi-deck, this first-light Paisley told me that the baby is big and strong and as I curl on my side, pulling my knees up, the heir rolls, a limb or shoulder poking out. I poke it back.
It doesn’t hurt, much.
My back spasms.
But I like the feeling of company, knowing a little piece of my king is here, but it is getting harder to sleep. Harder to relax. I’m hotter. Tighter. The skin around my belly itches and aches.
It does hurt—a little.
I toss and turn, the heir’s weight inside me dictating every position and all discomfort. Somewhere between awake and sleep, I hear the door open, feel the bed rock from side to side, and sense… him.
“Aster.” His nose trails up my throat moments before firm, warm lips press to mine, demanding I turn my head and accept them.
I moan in my half-conscious state, opening my lips to accept his long, thick tongue.
He tastes good.
So good.
My nipples tighten beneath the silk of my gown, arousal building between my legs as he massages my lips with his.
Wait.
“Rome!” I sit up, cupping my abdomen as the large baby inside me moves like a solid stone pendulum. It is dark in his room, but the maroon-coloured fire casts a glowing light around us, an aura of lusty red.
I blink at him—at Rome—registering the scar on his lower lip, the fragmented blue eyes, and his bare chest carved to angry perfection. It’s him. His mouth curves against my startled awe.