The palace was quieter now, the gentle hum of the ocean a lullaby woven through the shimmering halls of pearl and obsidian.

You stood by the carved shell-cradle, watching the tiny form nestled within, wrapped in the softest sea silk. Your son. Your little heir. He slept soundly, his tiny fingers curled, his skin kissed with the faint glow of Atlantis’ magic.

A presence loomed behind you, warm and inescapable.

Kael.

His arms slid around your waist, pulling you against the steady strength of his body. He pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, his breath fanning across your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“You should be resting,” he murmured, voice deep and rich, like the ocean depths.

“So should you,” you countered, but you didn’t pull away.

His grip tightened, his fingers splaying across your stomach—where life had once grown. Where his son had been cradled before the ocean brought him forth.

Kael had always been possessive. But since the birth, it had only worsened. He barely let you leave his sight. If you so much as sighed in exhaustion, he carried you. If you looked too long at the open sea, he held you closer.

As if you, too, might slip away into the currents.

“I can’t help it,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You gave me a son, my queen.” His voice was reverent, his lips tracing the shell of your ear. “You will not lift a single finger unless I allow it.”