xaden didn’t even like you.

that was the worst part of it. in fact, the man positively loathed you with every inch of his being—every atom of his six feet five, well-muscled build was practically buzzing with hatred. the only thing he despised more than you as an individual was his insufferable attraction towards you. which, he rationalised, was a mere chemical reaction and therefore invalidated.

that the night of intimacy had transpired at all was . . . well. partway down to the lack of inhibitions that accompanied alcohol. and partially the consequence of your stupid smart-aleck mouth, your stupid silver tongue, your stupid everything—

gods, that festival had condemned him. celebrating the deities had lead to worshipping you, instead. he hates how distinctly he recalls your taste, when he had at last gotten his mouth on you. and he really, really abhors the fact that neither of you took the fucking contraceptive tonic.

because now—

”you’re pregnant,” tairn divulged rather abruptly, inside both of your skulls, as though he was passively mentioning the weather.

xaden stilled in place—the evening had eventuated unremarkably thus far, and the only reason he was presently in your vicinity was because tairn and sgaeyl had collaboratively premeditated it. apparently, they’d both decided bomb-dropping out of the blue was the best course of action.

tairn reiterated his sole statement, clearly supposing you were both too blindsided to register reality and repercussions.

“you’re pregnant.”

“no shit,” xaden bit out, already scrutinising you with startlingly intense eyes. he seemed to be truly wondering how he had not gauged this; you’d offhandedly complained of nausea three times, and he’d overheard mutterings of aches. “how far?”

tairn considered. “six weeks.”

six weeks.

xaden had kissed you six weeks ago. touched you. mouthed down your spine and allowed himself to have you, fully, stupidly, ruinously, as though he were a fool who knew no better. thinking, in the spur of the moment, that ramifications were no such thing.

the first coherent thought he managed to articulate was more of a demand than anything else. “you need to stop sparring. now.”