Hmm. Clearly my apology hadn’t put him in a better mood.

So I sought to better his mood and suggested softly, “How about you try to take my xaxsah with your lisa and we’ll see how it goes.”

“I do not wish courting you being sick with my mouth between your legs, Circe.”

Okay, well, that didn’t work.

I rolled into him, fighting the nausea as I ran my hand down his chest and then wound an arm around his back, whispering, “Lahn –”

Suddenly, he pulled in breath through his nose and he did this so sharply, I shut up.

When he expelled it, his eyes locked with mine and he whispered, “We ride on Maroo in two days.”

I closed my eyes and tipped my head forward.

I knew this and I didn’t want to talk about it. Not then, not ever. I’d be living it soon enough.

A second later, I felt his lips on my forehead so my eyes opened to see the beautiful column of his throat.

Against my skin, he said, “We could be on campaign a month or we could be on campaign a year. And you will be here and I will not.”

All right, he wasn’t pissed about the birth control discussion, he was worried. That was good. What was bad was, for my husband, I needed to talk about this and I didn’t want to.

“I’ll be okay,” I said gently.

“I know you will be okay.” His hand again pressed into my belly and I felt his mouth move from my forehead so I tipped my head back to catch his eyes. “But every day, he or she grows in you and this I will not see. You will grow heavy and I will not be here to watch your beauty bloom to be even more beautiful. And he or she could come and I will not be here to cut the connection and be the first being they gaze upon so they will know their father.”

“They’ll know you, honey, even if you’re not here. They’ll know.”

He stared down at me in mild affront, his brows drawn. “I must be at the birth. It must be me who pulls him from your womb. The first being a child must see, Circe, is their father. The first touch they must feel is the touch of their father. Their connection to their mother is established for months, their father must have those to establish his.”

Wow, that was beautiful. But as beautiful as it was, I was hoping for someone like a midwife who would “pull him from my womb”. Even the midwife serving a savage, primitive horde. My guess was my husband hadn’t handled or even attended very many births (as in, none) and she’d likely have experience I might need.

You know, just in case.

I decided it was wise not to share this.

Instead I sighed. Then I gave him a squeeze.

Then I said, “Well, you better kick some Maroo ass, baby, then get yours home to me…” I paused then whispered, “Safe.”

His eyes roamed my face for long moments before his lips twitched up.

“This is the plan,” he muttered.

I grinned at him.

He grinned back.

Then it faded and he whispered, “I must go.”

I nodded and waited. Then it came, his hand at my jaw, his thumb sweeping my cheekbone and his eyes wandering my face with such intensity it was like he was trying to burn the vision of it in his brain.

This happened every morning right before he left me since the day after the attack. This, I guessed (but did not ask), was an indication of a psychological wound he endured while riding hard to get to me after learning of a plot to murder me that included a traitor in his very own cham. Then arriving home to have his first vision of me being a me covered in blood. It was clear this had marked him deeply. And although it was a beautiful thing to think the very idea of my loss could wound him so severely, I hated that that wound was there.

I just didn’t know what to do about it.

So I did the only thing I knew to do. I pressed into him and smiled brightly.

Then I suggested, “How about this, I take your xac in my lisa when you get home tonight.”

The intensity in his eye shifted, then faded, then returned in a different way, then his arm curled around me and he pulled me deeper.

“You just made me a promise, kah bahsah,” he growled.

I pushed slightly up and, against his mouth, I whispered, “I won’t renege, kah bahsan.”

His eyes held mine for a heartbeat before his head slanted and he kissed me, deep and wet and I was really glad I used that twig.

When my toes had curled and my ni**les had gone hard and I realized that I didn’t feel at all like throwing up in his mouth, he released my lips, lifted up, kissed my forehead and then he maneuvered his big body over mine and out of the bed. Then I watched over my shoulder as his fabulous body with his seriously fine ass walked to the bathroom-ish style room.

Then I rolled to my back and examined the state of my stomach.

I was fine.

I was about to call out to inform Lahn of this when a roil of nausea slid through.

Okay, so I wasn’t fine. Therefore, I didn’t call out to Lahn.

But I listened to him and watched him as he moved around in the other rooms and our bedroom. And as I listened and watched, I committed what I heard and saw to memory.

And I processed the last six weeks and I did this in an effort not to think about what the next six weeks (and longer) would bring.

* * * * *

We had stayed at our camp for two weeks after the attack. Lahn again mostly disappeared during this time as planning a war was obviously time consuming. But every day he woke me to say a very nice good morning then he’d be gone and I wouldn’t see him until my next good morning.

As he ordered, a new cham replacing our old one was sheltering me in a week (actually, more like five days). This one was made with darker, thicker fabric and had a variety of new poles. Where the other one just had those holding up the roof, this one had four in a star shape between each support so that even if a knife could cut through the fabric, there wasn’t enough room for anyone to squeeze through unless they chopped their way through the wooden supports.

Lahn was clearly not taking any chances. This felt nice. But, every time I saw those poles, it made me sad. I missed our old cham and I missed my Teetru as I knew her to be (not, obviously, who she ended up being).

I didn’t dwell on the sad.

Our cham was also bigger, perhaps two feet all around but two feet added to the circumference of a circular tent was a lot. It seemed cavernous compared with our old one.

I would understand this added room when our long, narrow table was not returned and one just as long but three times as wide was set in its place with four chairs around it rather than just two at the ends. Also, another chair with a small ottoman were introduced to our décor (yes, an actual chair!). The chair was heavy on the wood but the back and seat were cushioned and covered with rose velvet with a design cut into them.