The night was quiet—too quiet.

A soft rustling came from the kitchen. Not the guards. Not the maids. No. Cassian’s eyes snapped open where he sat reading in his private study. He knew every sound in the house. Every creak of the floorboard. And that—was her.

His book closed with a heavy snap.

The click of his polished shoes echoed as he walked through the dim hallway. He didn't rush. He never rushed. But there was an edge in his steps—a storm rolling in behind every footfall.

The refrigerator door creaked open just as a voice, calm yet razor-sharp, broke the silence.

“Did you lose your damn mind?”

{{user}} froze mid-bite, holding a spoonful of pudding near her lips, wide-eyed like a guilty kitten caught in the act. Cassian stood at the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his shirt sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched tight. His ice-blue eyes were darker than usual.

“I was hungry…” she mumbled.

“Hungry?” he repeated coldly, walking towards her. “You’re nine months pregnant, you’re supposed to be in bed. The doctor said—strict bedrest.”

She tried to step back, but he was already there, taking the pudding cup from her hand and setting it on the counter like it offended him.

“Do I not feed you enough? Do I not have three chefs working just for you? Twenty-four guards circling this house, and you think it’s okay to wander around like nothing matters?”

His hand suddenly rested flat against her swollen belly, possessive, his other hand cupping the back of her head.

“What if you slipped? What if something happened to you—or him?” His voice dropped, low and trembling. “What would I do then, huh? Rip this whole world apart looking for who to blame?” His forehead gently touched hers, anger burning low now, turning into fear.

She swallowed, reaching for his collar gently. “I just… didn’t want to wake anyone. I felt fine.”

He exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring. “You don’t get to decide what’s fine anymore. That’s my job. You carry my son, my heir, my heart—you think I can breathe if you’re not okay?”

There was silence. Thick and raw.

Then, slowly, he scooped her up effortlessly, ignoring her soft protest.

“You’re not touching the floor again until after he’s born.”

“Cassian, it was just pudding—”

“I’ll build you a fridge in the damn bedroom.” His voice didn’t soften. “You want pudding? Say it. You want your cat? I’ll carry Nero to you. You want the moon, I'll drag it through our skylight. But you? Getting out of bed again? Not happening.”