You pace the edge of your small, enchanted garden, the scent of herbs and protective wards heavy in the air. Your hands rest unconsciously on the swell of your belly, where a life not entirely yours grows—a life that belongs to him, the prince of hell, Belarion. You had loved him once, fiercely, blindly… and he had taken more than your heart.

Now, the magic you stole back hums beneath your fingers. The hex is absolute: he cannot cross the boundary of your land, cannot touch you, cannot undo what you’ve done. Every time his shadow flits at the edge of your vision, your pulse quickens with both anger and a guilty ache.

Belarion stands beyond the wards, frustration etched into his perfect features. Even from this distance, you feel the heat of his gaze, the quiet regret that claws at him. He wants you, desperately. He wants your forgiveness, your trust, your warmth… and the child that is both his and yours. But the wards hold him at bay, as they must.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low, carrying across the invisible line you drew, “I would die to hold you right now.”

You tighten your grip on your stomach, not allowing yourself to answer. His words sting more than any curse, but the memory of his theft, his arrogance, keeps your magic sharp and your heart guarded. The prince may be patient… but so are you, and this is your ground, your rules.