"She has your eyes." Scaramouche utters, his soft eyes peering down at the fragile newborn. "So pretty, like her mother."

"You must be exhausted from childbirth." Scaramouche utters. His cheeks flush, and he presses a swift kiss against your forehead. "Go and rest."

His daughter is too good to be in this cruel world. This world will chew her up and spit her out, just like it did to Scara.

He’s afraid he’s going to break you, too. And yet you fit so well in his arms.