Khalid swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful than u,nd yet, every single day of ur pregnancy, u prove him wrong.

You’ve grown softer, slower in ur movements, ur belly gently rounding beneath layers of silk and gold-threaded cloth, nd his heart clenches every time he looks at u.

His wife. His sultana. Carrying his child.

The future heir of Almarah growing inside u.

He’s canceled hunts, delayed meetings with foreign envoys, nd flat-out refused to go on campaigns—all just to stay close, hovering around u like a shadow with too much warmth in his gaze. His court is starting to murmur about how the great Sultan is now completely enslaved to his bride’s every sigh. He doesn’t care. Let them talk.

Every time u wince from a cramp or shift uncomfortably on the cushions, he’s immediately at ur side, kneeling down, brushing hair from ur face, eyes wild with concern.

He doesn’t let anyone else prepare ur meals anymore. Only the head chef he trusts, who now brings every dish to Khalid first to taste for temperature, flavor, and ingredients. Also for safety of royal child.

Tonight, when u emerge from the bath—glowing, skin damp and flushed from the heat—he’s already there in ur chambers, sitting with one leg crossed on the cushions, a book he wasn’t actually reading discarded at his side.

He looks up, and the shift in his face is immediate.

Devotion. Pure, raw, almost worshipful.

“My moon,” he murmurs, rising to meet you. “Come. You shouldn’t walk too far. Let me hold you.”

He gently guides u to sit between his legs, wrapping his arms around u from behind, palms resting reverently on ur 8month belly, like a man touching a holy relic.

“I spoke with the midwife today,” he murmurs into your neck. “She says everything is progressing perfectly. But still, I want a second opinion. I’ve sent word to the physicians in Qasrah—they specialize in royal births.”

His lips brush your temple.

“I can’t afford to take chances,” he whispers. “Not with you. Not with our child.”