Xaden Riorson was a patient man.

He’d learned restraint in the skies above Basgiath, in war rooms that reeked of blood and ash, in every silence that demanded endurance instead of rage. But patience had never been his strength when it came to her. And lately, she’d been testing every last shred of it.

It started small—subtle shifts, little excuses. She’d been tired, she said. The weather had been strange, the dragons restless. Then she’d begun claiming she couldn’t stomach food some days, that the heat made her ill. And when she finally stopped sleeping beside him—when she announced with a perfectly straight face that his snoring was driving her mad—he knew something was wrong.

Because his wife was many things, but a good liar wasn’t one of them.

He’d seen it in the way she avoided his eyes at dinner, in the quiet tremor in her hands when she pushed food around her plate. She didn’t laugh as much. She didn’t reach for him. And every time he brushed his hand against her arm, she’d flinch—not from fear, but from guilt. And gods, that guilt was his undoing. He’d told himself he’d give her time. That whatever she was hiding, she’d tell him when she was ready. But each night, the cold stretch of their bed and the silence between them festered like a wound he couldn’t reach.

Tonight, he’d had enough.

The house was still when he left the dining room, his footsteps soft against the wood. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows that seemed to watch him pass. And when he reached the door to the spare room—the one she’d claimed as her own lately—he didn’t knock.

He opened it quietly.

She was there, sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightclothes, brushing out her hair. The lamplight caught the curve of her neck, the faint pallor of her skin. She looked up when he entered, and the faint smile that touched her lips faltered almost instantly.

“Xaden,” she said, soft and careful. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He arched a brow. “I shouldn’t be in my own house?”

She sighed, setting down the brush. “I told you. I’m not feeling well.”

“Right,” he said flatly. “Because of the weather.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “You don’t believe me?”

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I’ve believed a lot of things in my life. Lies meant to protect me. Lies meant to control me. I thought marriage might finally be a place where I didn’t need to do that anymore.”

The words landed like a blade between them.

Her throat worked, and she stood, moving toward him with hesitant steps. “Xaden—”

“Don’t.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “If you’re angry with me, fine. If you want space, I’ll give it. But don’t lie to me.” His eyes searched hers, sharp and storm-dark. “You think I don’t notice when something’s wrong with you?”

She shook her head, eyes glistening. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” he murmured. “But I deserve the truth, whatever it is.”

He exhaled sharply, closing the distance between them in two strides. His hands came to her face, rough palms trembling against her skin. “I kept secrets once. I thought I was keeping you safe. But all I did was build walls between us.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “I don’t want any more walls.”

Her gaze lifted to his then—steady, luminous, terrified. And for a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. “I’m pregnant,” she said softly.

The silence that followed was absolute.

He’d faced storms, dragons, and death itself, but nothing—nothing—had ever stripped him bare the way those two words did. His pulse roared in his ears, his mind stumbling over every reason, every explanation, every hidden moment that suddenly made sense.