Your son and daughter had inherited two things from the Duke of Tyrredor and your husband, Xaden: his collectedness and his uncanny knack for doing exactly what they shouldn’t.

“Sweethearts, those aren’t toys,” you said for the third time in five minutes, crouching as they inspected the buckles on his gear like priceless treasure. You reached for the strap with a sigh. “If you break that, your father is going to—”

Shadows brushed your arm, warm air shifting just before his voice came.

“—Catch my kids in the act?”

You turned to find Xaden in the doorway, rain-damp hair, flight leathers still on. His gaze swept over you, the harness, and your kids' stubborn grip—right before they abandoned it to bolt into his arms.

“Daddy!” they squealed as he picked them up and shadows curled playfully around them both.

“Now, what have my royal trouble makers done this time?”