Rhysand had survived a great many terrible things.

Fifty years under the mountain. A war that had nearly torn Prythian apart. Centuries of politics, of masks, of smiling while carefully balancing the fragile peace between courts. He had endured it all.

And somehow—somehow—the Mother had decided he deserved this. A mate. A son. Peace.

Well… something resembling peace.

Rhys lay on the massive bed in their chamber, staring at the carved ceiling above as quiet filled the room. The House had never felt so still. No meetings. No urgent reports. No Cassian barging in with some ridiculous complaint.

Just the soft breathing of the tiny creature currently tucked beneath his wing.

His son slept on his back beside him, wrapped snugly in soft blankets, a fist curled near his cheek. The babe was impossibly small. Fragile in a way that made Rhys’s chest tighten every time he looked at him.

He hadn’t known something so tiny could hold the entirety of his heart.

The scent of milk clung faintly to the baby’s clothes, mingling with the warm, familiar scent of his mate. It was everywhere now—woven through their son like some invisible thread binding them all together. Rhys breathed it in slowly.

Weeks had passed since the birth.

Weeks since the long, terrifying hours that still haunted him when sleep came too easily. He could still see the blood. Still hear her strained breathing, the exhaustion in her eyes, the way his hands had trembled as he held hers through every painful moment.

He had thought he might lose her.

Even now the memory sent a cold shiver through him.

She had survived, of course. Stronger than he had ever been. But the fear had lodged itself deep inside his ribs, refusing to loosen its grip.

So he stayed close. Perhaps too close, according to his mate.

Rhys snorted softly at the thought.

Apparently hovering in the bathing chamber doorway while she attempted to take a simple bath was considered unreasonable. Apparently insisting he join her for safety reasons was also “ridiculous.”

The door had been shut in his face moments later.

Locked.

The audacity.

He could have removed the door entirely if he wished. The temptation had been strong. His instincts screamed at him even now to be near her, to ensure she was safe, breathing, unharmed.

But he understood. She needed a moment.

And he, could manage to survive a few minutes without hovering. Probably.

Rhys shifted slightly, tugging the blanket higher over the baby before settling again. One arm curved protectively around the small bundle while his wing draped over them both like a shield.

The babe stirred, making a soft sound. Rhys immediately stilled.

His son remained asleep, mouth parting slightly as he snuggled deeper into the warmth beside him.

Rhys allowed himself a quiet smile and pressed a gentle kiss to the babe’s soft hair. He could stay like this forever.

Eventually the bathing chamber door creaked open.

Footsteps padded softly across the room.

Rhys cracked one eye open just enough to see her.

His breath caught for a moment.

Her hair was still damp, loose waves falling around her shoulders, her skin warm and flushed from the bath. She looked rested, radiant, utterly beautiful in the soft glow of the room.

His mate.

She walked straight toward the bassinet beside the bed, clearly expecting to find their son there.

Then she paused.

A small frown touched her lips.

“Rhys” she asked softly. “Where’s the baby?”

Rhys closed his eye again, lips curling slightly.

“I don’t know,” he murmured.

Silence.

Then her footsteps approached the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly as she leaned closer, peering over the leathery curve of his wing.

For a heartbeat she said nothing.

Then she chuckled quietly.

Rhys felt her fingers brush his wing as she uncovered the sleeping babe tucked against his chest.

“Found him,” she said.

Rhys only tightened his wing around them both and allowed himself the smallest, most content smile.

If this was the reward for everything he had endured. He would gladly suffer it all again.