She pointed to the underside of her belly near her hipbones. “Here. But it’s gone now.”

Before she could even get that last part out, he had the edge of her black lace pajama top between his fingers. His dark eyes met hers. “May I?”

She nodded. “All right.”

He lifted the material just a few inches, to the very top of her belly, then placed his warm hand on the spot where her pain had been and began to rub in slow, gentle circles. Mesmerized, entranced, confused, Petra watched his large, strong hand massaging her swollen belly. Would her child’s hand look like this someday?

Oh, gods.

She lifted her gaze to his face. His stunningly handsome face. If she had a male balas, would he look like Syn? Would he have carved cheekbones and a full mouth? Deep, soulful eyes that pinned a female where she stood, then made her melt?

Her chest went tight and she bit at her lower lip. Would she really go through her life seeing Synjon Wise in every expression or movement her child made?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his hand stalled, his eyes burning a hole through her. “Is the pain back?”

“No.” Not that kind of pain.

He looked relieved, then started again with the circles on her belly. “This all right?”

“It feels good.” Too good. What was she supposed to do here? Stop him? Tell him that every time his hands were on her, she wanted them inside her as well?

“Look, Petra.”

The sudden youthful tone in his voice had her looking up. “What?”

“It follows me.” The smile on his face stunned her. It was completely real, almost innocent.

“What follows you?”

“The balas. It follows my hand.”

She looked down, watched as he moved his palm slowly across the top of her belly and down. A soft moan escaped her lips as she felt the deep and intense movement within her womb.

“Look,” he said.

And there it was. Her child’s head or elbow or foot following along behind Synjon’s hand.

She pulled away from him, from his touch, from the idea that he might somehow have control of her little balas, and rolled to her side. “I’m really tired.”

Syn didn’t say anything, but his hand flexed.

“You know, from all that pacing.” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. What had just happened here was the most intimate thing that she’d ever experienced in her life, and she didn’t know what to make of it.

“Good night, Syn,” she said almost breathlessly.

He stood, hesitated for a moment, then walked to the door. “I want to know if that pain comes back.”

She curled into her pillow.

“Promise me, Petra.”

His tone, almost dark, worried her. “I promise.”

This time, when he left, he didn’t close the door all the way.

• • •

He felt.

Not just the keys beneath his fingers as he worked the Bösendorfer with Debussy, but something deeper, something that had nothing to do with instinct, when he got close to the balas.

How could that be possible? Instinct he was willing to accept, but an emotional connection?

Cruen had drained him absolutely. Syn had made sure of it—then made sure all those emotions were permanently embedded in the asshole paven.

He played on. He played until he felt nothing at all. He played until the room grew cold and the snow outside accumulated against the glass doors leading to the terrace.

He played until he felt someone watching him.

His hands stilled over the keys and he glanced up. To his right, halfway between the hall to her bedroom and his piano, was the most beautiful swollen-bellied angel. Her hair loose and falling about the high white mounds of her breasts, barely encased by the black lace of her tank.

His mouth started to water. “Is the pain back?”

“That was you?”

“Is the pain back, love?” he said again.

“No. No, I’m fine.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out, then began to play once again. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

She came to stand beside the piano bench, bringing her scent with her. It made his gut clench with hunger and thirst. “You were the one playing at the party.”

He looked up at her. “You heard me over that crowd?”

“It was the only thing I wanted to hear,” she said. “It was beautiful. It is beautiful. I had no idea you could play.”

“The secret life of Synjon Wise,” he muttered, then switched gears, his fingers dancing over the keys as he played the very same song he’d played earlier that night. When he’d wanted to block out the party, his hunger, and his ever-growing desire for the veana who stood just inches away.

When he stopped, Petra sighed. “Incredible. I wish I could play like that.”

“You can,” he said.

She laughed. “Come on now.”

“I don’t mean right away. But you can learn, start from the beginning.” Then he added impetuously, foolishly, “I could teach you.”

“I’d like that, but I’m not sure I can fit on a piano bench in my condition. Where’s the belly going to go?” She laughed. “On top of the keys?”

“We could give it a try, and if it’s not comfortable, maybe after the balas is born . . .”

“Right,” she said quickly. She was quiet for a moment, no doubt thinking about returning to the Rain Forest after the birth of Little Fangs. Or not returning.

It was a thought he refused to entertain.

“How long have you been playing?” She came around to stand behind him.

“Since I was a balas of six years.” He started playing something soft and a little sad. Seemed to suit the mood. “Took to it right away.”

“No lessons?”

He shook his head. “Not a one.”

“That’s amazing. I wonder if Little Fangs will have—” She stopped abruptly. “Sorry. I know you hate the name.”

“I don’t mind it, really.” He looked over his shoulder, found her gaze. “And I hope so.”

She swallowed tightly and her eyes shuttered.

Syn took his hands off the piano and turned around to face her. His hands went to her waist, his thumbs on her stomach. “I hope the balas has something of me. Though it may seem impossible to see at this moment, with what I have become, there are traces of good within my blood.”

She gazed down at him. “I remember.”

“Oh, Petra.” He leaned in and placed his head on her belly. It was so warm. She was so warm.

Her hands found his hair and tangled in the dark strands, the pads of her fingers massaging his scalp. Syn turned and nuzzled her belly. He gently lifted her tank and pressed a kiss to her skin, then dropped his head and kissed down the side of her swell, over her hipbone.

He growled, his nostrils flaring. “I scent your heat, Petra,” he whispered against her skin. “I want it.”

She shifted in his hands, her body and her breathing unsteady.

He lapped at her hipbone with his tongue, then started pulling down her pajama bottoms.

She moaned, her fingers digging deeper into his scalp as he eased the black silk down to her knees.

“I’m so thirsty, love.” He gazed at the beautiful wet pussy that was nearly at eye level as he sat on his piano bench.

“Syn . . .”

The whisper of his name made his cock stir. “I can’t drink your blood, love. But I can lick your cream.”

“Oh, gods,” she cried softly.

“Tell me yes, Petra.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

As his head bent, his hands went around to cup her ass. With his first lick, his first taste, blood surged into his cock. He’d never had anything on his tongue that compared to this, to her, and he realized in that moment that no matter how long he feasted at her spectacular cunt, he’d never be satiated.

He wanted her for life.

Growling away the thought, he slipped one hand down the curve of her ass and up again, finding her wet sheath. Flicking his tongue lightly over her clit, he eased two fingers up inside her.

Her deep-throated groan matched his own.

Ruddy hell, she was so tight, so drenched in cream.

His dick begged to be let out, released, so it could find and capture and bury itself in the hot, fist-tight cage it desired so intensely. His emotions were gone, or so he’d thought, but this . . . fuck, this connection he had with her—this connection he’d had since she’d saved his sorry ass—was never going to recede.

And he didn’t think he wanted it to.

Her hips were moving now, swinging, bucking against his mouth. It was all Syn could do to keep his face planted in her sex, his tongue swirling on her clit and his fingers fucking her deep. The room no longer felt cold. In fact, it was blistering with heat and sweat, groans and heavy breathing, and Syn wanted to rip his clothes off and feel her skin to skin again.

His eyes closed as he pressed his tongue against her clit, moving his head up and down. On the backs of his eyelids he saw them, the two of them, in the strange, beautiful, tree house bathroom, his body over hers, her eyes on him, his cock thrust so deep he’d nearly lost his mind.

She ripped her fingers from his hair then and gripped his shoulders for support. He could feel the heat gathering within her, her slick, honey walls clamping around his fingers as he pumped. She was going to climax. And when she did, he was going to drink her down.

Not her blood.

But her sweet come.

With a growl of hunger, he consumed her, his tongue moving through her wet slit, then circling. He eased a third finger inside her and started fucking her fast and deep. Her head fell back and she began to shake.

“Oh, gods, yes!” she cried, her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders.

Syn left her ass and looped his arm around her waist to hold her in place. Then his lips covered her clit and while he suckled, while he coaxed the hot bud to swell against his tongue, his fingers thrust up into her cunt and remained.