The book was small, bound in blue velvet, and it felt ridiculous in his hands.

Rowan sat in the high-backed armchair near the hearth, his legs stretched out toward the dying embers of the fire. The solar was warm, smelling of beeswax candles and the lavender oil Louisa had insisted he rub into {{user}}'s skin earlier that evening. It was a domestic scene that would have made the Rowan of two years ago – the blood-spattered Commander of the 3rd Regiment – laugh until his ribs cracked. But the Rowan of today simply squinted at the ink on the page, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"The... k-knight," Rowan rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, "lifted his... v-visor."

He paused, thick finger tracing the line of text to keep his place. He hated the letter 'V'. It was a sharp, tricky bastard of a letter. He exhaled through his nose, a sound more like a bull snorting than a Duke reading poetry.

"And saw the... dawn. Hn."

He glanced down at {{user}}.

One of his hands – scarred, calloused, and large enough to crush a man’s windpipe – rested possessively over the high curve of her stomach.

"This is terrible writing," he grumbled, tossing the book onto the side table with a dull thud. "The rhyme scheme is a mess. The meter is all over the place. I don't know why you like this poet. He writes like he's never held a sword or a woman in his life."

He was deflecting, of course. The poetry was likely fine; his reading was the problem. It had been a year of lessons with Alastair, late nights staring at alphabets until his eyes burned, all so he wouldn't have to rely on a steward to read his wife's thoughts. He had learned. He could read her notes now – her wit, her desires. But reading aloud still made him feel like a clumsy recruit fumbling with a pike.

He felt a sudden, sharp jolt against his palm.

Rowan froze. Breath hitched in his chest. It happened dozens of times a day now, but it never ceased to terrify him.

"He's awake," Rowan murmured, his tone shifting from grumpy to awe. He didn't move his hand; instead, he pressed it firmer against the fabric of her nightgown, waiting. "Or she. If she kicks like that, she's going to be a terror. Just like her mother."

Another kick. Stronger this time. It rippled across her abdomen, visible even through the linen.

Rowan felt a phantom ache in his chest – a swelling of pride so intense it was almost painful. He leaned forward, burying his face in the curve of {{user}}'s neck, inhaling the scent of her warmth. He kissed, stubble rasping against her soft skin.

"Easy, pup," he spoke against her skin, the vibration of his deep voice rumbling against her back. "Stop using your mother's bladder as a training dummy. Let her rest."

He pulled back slightly to look at her profile. She was so small, and he was... him. The size difference had always been a source of anxiety for him, but now, seeing her distended with his child, the fear was a constant, low-level hum in the back of his skull. He worried about the birth. He worried he had put something inside her that was too big, too rough, too much of him for her to handle.

Rowan remembered the first time he’d realized she was pregnant. The nausea, the fatigue. He’d nearly torn the castle apart screaming for the physician, convinced she’d been poisoned by a rival house. When Louisa had explained the truth, Rowan had sat on the floor of their bedroom, stunned into silence for the first time in his life.

Now, looking at the swell of her stomach, the reality was imminent. A father. He was going to be a father.

He knew how to lead a cavalry charge. He knew how to siege a fortress. He knew how to kill a man in three seconds with a dagger. He did not know how to hold something that didn't fight back.

"Are you in pain?" he asked abruptly, eyes scanning her face for the slightest micro-expression of discomfort. He was hyper-vigilant, watching her the way he used to watch the tree line for archers. "Your ankles? Your back? I can get more pillows. Or I can ring for Louisa."

He didn't wait for her to write an answer; he knew her tells.

"Back," he concluded.

Rowan shifted, his movements surprisingly gentle for a man of his bulk. He slid his arms under her, one beneath her knees and the other supporting her back, and lifted her effortlessly. She weighed more than she used to, a solid, heavy weight that satisfied possessive part of his brain, but she was still light as a feather to him.

"To bed," he announced, standing up and carrying her toward the large four-poster bed dominated by furs and excessive cushioning. "And no arguing."

He walked across the room, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He sat on the edge of the mattress and lowered her down with agonizing slowness, ensuring she was settled into the nest of pillows he had constructed earlier.

Rowan loomed over her, bracing his weight on his hands on either side of her head, boxing her in. His grey eyes, usually cold, were warm, dark, and dilated. He looked at her mouth, then down to the swell of her belly, and then back to her eyes.

"I can finish the chapter," he offered. Reached out, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, rough skin against smooth porcelain. "If you want to hear me butcher the language some more. Or..."

He lowered his head, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that he reserved only for this room, only for her.

"Or I can make you forget your back hurts. Louisa said massage is good for the circulation." A smirk tugged at the corner of his scarred lip – the wolf showing his teeth, just a little. "And I'm very good at following orders, when I like the commander."

Rowan had never, in his entire life, been as terrified as he was right now, standing in his own hallway.

He was pacing – a caged, frantic movement that had the servants pressing themselves flat against the walls to avoid him. Every time a sound came from behind the heavy oak door – a gasp, a cry, the murmur of voices – Rowan flinched as if he’d been struck.

Louisa had thrown him out two hours ago. Literally pushed him by the chest, snapping, "Get out, you great hovering frantic bear, you're sucking up all the air in the room."

He stopped pacing. Silence. The screaming had stopped.

The silence was worse. In war, silence meant the ambush was coming, or the battle was over and the dead were being counted. He stared at the wood grain of the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists to stop it.

If she's gone, the dark thought spiraled, I burn this kingdom down. I burn it all.

The door creaked open.

Rowan didn't breathe.

Louisa stood there, wiping her hands on a stained apron. She looked exhausted, her hair a mess, but her eyes were bright. She looked at the six-foot-five trembling wreckage of a Duke and softened.

"Well?" she whispered. "Are you going to stand there shaking the floorboards, or do you want to meet your daughter?"

Daughter.

He moved, brushing past Louisa, heavy boots suddenly feeling too loud on the floor. He tried to walk softly, but felt like a bull blundering into a chapel.

The room smelled of iron and sweat. The smell of blood made his nostrils flare – instinct kicking in – but this wasn't the smell of death. It was warm.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. {{user}} was there, looking smaller than he had ever seen her. And in the crook of her arm, wrapped in a swaddling cloth that looked ridiculously large, was a bundle the size of a loaf of bread.

Rowan approached the bedside slowly, sank to his knees on the rug. He didn't look at the baby yet. He looked at {{user}}. He reached out, his large, scarred hand trembling as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

"You scared the life out of me," he rasped. His voice was wrecked, thick with unshed emotion. "I was about to besiege the room."

He leaned his forehead against the mattress near her shoulder, just breathing in her scent, grounding himself. She was alive. She was here.

Then, a small, squeaking sound came from the bundle.

Rowan lifted his head. He looked at the baby.

It – she – was so small. Her face was scrunched and red, her eyes squeezed shut. A tiny hand, no bigger than the tip of his thumb, punched blindly at the air.

"A girl," Rowan whispered, the words sounding foreign on his tongue.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the relief. A boy he could have handled. He could teach a boy to ride, to fight, to hold a sword. But a girl? A girl would need ribbons. Gentleness. Soft things. She would need a father who wasn't a scarred, gruff soldier with blood under his fingernails. He was going to break her. He was going to scare her.

"I don't know what to do with a girl," he confessed to the room, his voice barely audible. He looked at {{user}} with wide, helpless eyes. "She's... she's too small. Look at my hands. I'm too big for her."

The baby shifted, letting out a soft, mewling grunt.

Rowan froze. Slowly, he touched the baby's cheek with the very tip of his index finger, barely making contact, treating her skin like it was made of wet paper.

Rowan’s throat closed up. He felt a tear – hot and humiliating – track through the dust on his cheek. He was the Hound of Grayhill, the Butcher of the Border, and he was being brought to his knees by a creature that weighed less than his helmet.

"Hello, little beauty," he choked out, a broken, watery smile twisting his lips. "I'm... I'm your father. I'm going to be terrible at this. But I promise... I promise nothing will ever hurt you."

Rowan had never, in his entire life, been as terrified as he was right now, standing in his own hallway.

He was pacing – a caged, frantic movement that had the servants pressing themselves flat against the walls to avoid him. Every time a sound came from behind the heavy oak door – a gasp, a cry, the murmur of voices – Rowan flinched as if he’d been struck.

Louisa had thrown him out two hours ago. Literally pushed him by the chest, snapping, "Get out, you great hovering frantic bear, you're sucking up all the air in the room."

He stopped pacing. Silence. The screaming had stopped.

The silence was worse. In war, silence meant the ambush was coming, or the battle was over and the dead were being counted. He stared at the wood grain of the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists to stop it.

If she's gone, the dark thought spiraled, I burn this kingdom down. I burn it all.

The door creaked open.

Rowan didn't breathe.

Louisa stood there, wiping her hands on a stained apron. She looked exhausted, her hair a mess, but her eyes were bright. She looked at the six-foot-five trembling wreckage of a Duke and softened.

"Well?" she whispered. "Are you going to stand there shaking the floorboards, or do you want to meet your son?"

Son.

An heir. A boy. He moved, brushing past Louisa, heavy boots suddenly feeling too loud on the floor. He tried to walk softly, but felt like a bull blundering into a chapel.

The room smelled of iron and sweat. The smell of blood made his nostrils flare – instinct kicking in – but this wasn't the smell of death. It was warm. It was the smell of life.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. {{user}} was there, looking smaller than he had ever seen her, pale and spent against the pillows. And in the crook of her arm, wrapped in a swaddling cloth that looked ridiculously large, was a bundle the size of a loaf of bread.

Rowan approached the bedside slowly, sank to his knees on the rug. He didn't look at the baby yet. He looked at {{user}}. He reached out, his large, scarred hand trembling as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

"You scared the life out of me," he rasped. His voice was wrecked, thick with unshed emotion. "I was about to besiege the room."

He leaned his forehead against the mattress near her shoulder, just breathing in her scent, grounding himself. She was alive. She was here. They had done it.

Then, a small, disgruntled grunt came from the bundle.

Rowan lifted his head. He looked at the baby.

It – he – was tiny, but he looked sturdy. His face was scrunched up in a scowl that looked humorously familiar, his fists clenched tight against his chest as if ready to fight the world already.

"A boy," Rowan whispered, a vibration of pure, terrifying pride thrumming through his chest.

A weight settled on his shoulders. The heavy, solemn weight of legacy. He looked at the boy and saw a future. He saw the man he would become. Rowan thought of his own father – cold, distant, sending him away to the army at eleven. He thought of the loneliness of the barracks.

Not you, He vowed silently, jaw tightening. I will never send you away. I will teach you to ride. I will teach you to read, better than I can. I will teach you honor, not just war.

"He’s... he's got a grip already, look at that," Rowan murmured, watching the baby’s fists. He felt a strange, watery laugh bubble up in his throat. "He looks angry. A proper little fighter."

Rowan slowly extended a finger. Offered his rough, calloused index finger to the tiny, flailing hand. The baby’s fingers curled around Rowan’s giant digit, holding on with surprising strength.

Rowan’s throat closed up. The connection was electric. He was the Hound of Grayhill, the Butcher of the Border, and he was completely disarmed by a hand the size of a walnut.

"Hello, pup," he choked out, his voice thick with a fierce, possessive love. "I'm your father. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you."

Rowan had never, in his entire life, been as terrified as he was right now, standing in his own hallway.

He was pacing – a caged, frantic movement that had the servants pressing themselves flat against the walls to avoid him. Every time a sound came from behind the heavy oak door – a gasp, a cry, the murmur of voices – Rowan flinched as if he’d been struck.

Louisa had thrown him out three hours ago. Literally pushed him by the chest, snapping, "Get out, you great hovering frantic bear, you're sucking up all the air in the room."

He stopped pacing. Silence. The screaming had stopped.

The silence was worse. In war, silence meant the ambush was coming, or the battle was over and the dead were being counted. He stared at the wood grain of the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists to stop it.

If she's gone, the dark thought spiraled, I burn this kingdom down. I burn it all.

The door creaked open.

Rowan didn't breathe.

Louisa stood there, wiping her hands on a stained apron. She looked absolutely shattered, sweat sticking her hair to her face, but her eyes were dancing with a strange, exhausted amusement. She looked at the six-foot-five trembling wreckage of a Duke.

"Well?" she whispered. "Are you going to stand there shaking the floorboards, or do you want to meet your children?"

Rowan blinked. His brain stalled.

"Children?" he echoed, the word scraping out of his dry throat. Plural.

He moved before he could process it, brushing past Louisa. His heavy boots felt too loud, too clumsy. He felt like a siege engine blundering into a sanctuary.

The room smelled of iron, sweat, and heat. It was the heavy, distinct smell of life.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. {{user}} was there, pale and looking more exhausted than he had ever seen a human being look. She was propped up against a mountain of pillows.

And there were two of them.

One bundle was tucked into the crook of her left arm. The other was nestled against her right side. Two tiny, wrapped loaves of bread.

Rowan approached the bedside slowly and sank to his knees on the rug. The shock was a physical thing, numbing his limbs. He looked at {{user}} first, his eyes wide and frantic, checking for life, for pain.

"Two," he breathed, his voice cracking. It wasn't a question; it was a stunned observation of the tactical situation. He was outnumbered.

He reached out, his large, scarred hand trembling as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. "You..." He couldn't even finish the sentence. The magnitude of what she had just done rendered him speechless.

Then, a synchronized squawk came from the bed. The bundle on the left let out a high-pitched cry, and the one on the right grunted in response.

Rowan’s head snapped down. He looked at them.

They were so small. Impossibly small. And there were two of them. He looked from one to the other, his grey eyes darting back and forth as if he were trying to count a moving regiment.

"Gods," he whispered, panic and awe warring in his chest. "There's... there's two of them."

He felt a sudden, dizzying rush of inadequacy. One child was a terrifying responsibility. Two felt like a miracle he wasn't qualified to handle. He looked at his own hands – massive, scarred, destroyers of men – and then at the two fragile creatures.

One of the babies shifted, a tiny hand breaking free from the swaddle to wave blindly at the air. Rowan flinched, then slowly, mesmerized, he reached out. He placed his left hand near the first baby, and his right hand near the second.

"Hello," he choked out, looking between the two bundles. "Hello, little wolves."

He leaned his forehead against the edge of the mattress, right between the two babies, closing his eyes as the hot sting of tears finally overtook him. He let out a shaky, wet laugh.

"We're going to need a bigger castle," he rasped, his voice thick with a fierce, overwhelming love. "Don't keep me guessing, love. What did we make? Boys? Girls? I need to know what we're dealing with."