The Primordial Flame

Culinary abomination.

My breath hitches, my hand freezing against his collarbone.

I pull back just an inch, my eyes searching his face in stunned, wide-eyed bewilderment. The relief in my chest is suddenly tangled with sheer disbelief.

"I never mentioned anything about alleys," I whisper, my voice breathless with genuine shock. "Or... or remembering what freedom tastes like. How could you possibly know they said that?"

A dark, lethal shadow flickers through Vane’s eyes, replacing the tender awe with the cold, calculating edge of a seasoned operative.

"Because while Bram’s men were securing the carriage and rounding up the imperial guard, I had five minutes to interrogate Martha before we rode out," Vane murmurs, his thumb stroking soothing, unbroken circles across my cheek. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking under the faint line of his scar.

"And Martha didn’t sugarcoat a damn syllable. She told me the imperial vanguard didn't find that tavern by luck. Shelly and Lila pointed you out the second the doors splintered, right after spitting every vile, jealous poison they could think of to tear you apart."

His voice drops into a low, gravelly rasp, thick with quiet fury and bottomless remorse.

"Martha heard what they said to you, Ame. Every wretched word about squalling brats, about your body changing, about me abandoning you for the gutter the minute the novelty wore off."

He leans up, pressing his lips firmly against the center of my forehead, his breath hot against my skin as he gathers me tighter against his chest.

"I knew the moment I walked in here and saw you standing in front of that glass," Vane whispers against my hair, his arms an impenetrable fortress around me and the child resting beneath his palm.

"You were standing there carrying the weight of their venom all by yourself, wondering if the man who put this miracle inside you was going to turn into the monster they painted. So let me make this unmistakably clear, Princess, those two miserable ghosts never knew me. They had a hollow shell running on instinct and bad liquor. You are the only person who has ever held my soul, and I am not letting go. Not in six months. Not in sixty years."

A heavy, trembling sigh of pure relief drains the last trace of tension from my bones. I let my forehead collapse into the warm crook of his neck, burying my face against his pulse while my arms wind tightly around his broad shoulders, clinging to him like an anchor in a storm.

"I hope you weren’t too hard on Martha," I murmur into his skin, a faint, exhausted chuckle muffled against his collarbone. "She really is lovely. She was ready to take a cleaver to an entire imperial vanguard for me."

A low, rumbling vibration rolls through Vane’s chest beneath my cheek as he lets out a quiet, dry huff of laughter. His arms tighten around my waist and lower back, holding me effortless and secure against him.

"Martha can hold her own against three guilds and a mountain blizzard, scout," he rumbles softly, his lips brushing the crown of my head. "Believe me, she gave as good as she got. She threatened to skin me with her boning knife for leaving you alone in the first place, called me seven different kinds of reckless i***t, and then shoved a fresh jar of plum pickles into my saddlebag before throwing me out the door."

His fingers trail down my spine in slow, rhythmic strokes, coaxing the lingering tremors from my muscles until I am completely melted against him.

"She’s the one who sent the rider to the fortress before the dust even settled," Vane adds, his tone softening with gruff, honest gratitude. "If not for her sharp head, I’d still be combing the south valley blind. She has my protection for the rest of her days, and she knows it."

He shifts slightly in the wide armchair, reaching out with one long arm to snag the warm woolen throw, pulling it up over our shoulders until we are thoroughly cocooned from the drafts of the chamber.

"Now," Vane whispers against my ear, his lips curving into that familiar, devastatingly tender half-smile as his palm spreads wide and warm over my belly, "no more imperial bastards, no more venomous tavern harpies, and no more doubts. You, me, and our little fighter are going to eat that warm stew, and then you are sleeping for twelve straight hours while I keep watch."

"You will hear no argument from me," I murmur, my stomach choosing that exact second to let out a loud, undisguised rumble that vibrates straight against his ribs. I feel a flush rise to my cheeks, but I smile against his skin anyway. "That stew smells incredible."

I place a hand on the arm of the chair, bracing myself to slide off his lap so I can walk over to the table and fetch the bowls.

I barely make it an inch before his arm snaps tight around my waist like an iron band. With effortless, unhurried strength, Vane hauls me right back down against his chest, tucking my hips firmly into his lap and pinning me with the heavy woolen blanket.

"Where do you think you're going, Princess?" he rumbles, a low, wicked purr vibrating deep in his throat.

I look at him in mild indignation, though a helpless laugh bubbles up in my throat. "To get the food, Vane! Unless you plan on feeding me by pure willpower, someone has to reach the table."

"Someone does," Vane agrees smoothly, his eyes gleaming with pure, roguish amusement in the firelight. "And that someone isn't a pregnant woman who just survived an imperial kidnapping and three leagues in the freezing rain."

Without releasing his grip around my waist, he leans his long torso sideways over the edge of the armchair. With the absurd, fluid reach of a trained rogue, his fingertips snag the edge of the small wooden side table, dragging the entire surface, bowls, steaming iron pot, sliced bread, and all inches away from the hearth chair until it's practically sitting in our laps.

He settles back into the deep cushions, trapping me snugly between his chest and the fire, wearing a smug, insufferable grin that completely lights up his scarred face.

"See? Tactical efficiency," he whispers against my temple, pressing a warm kiss into my damp hair before picking up the carved wooden spoon. "You don't lift a finger for the rest of the night, scout. Sit back, stay warm, and let me take care of you."

I eagerly take the steaming earthenware bowl from his hands, burying my face over the rich vapor for half a second before spooning up a heaping bite of tender beef, root vegetables, and thick, peppery gravy.

The moment the savory warmth hits my tongue, I let my head drop back against Vane's broad chest with a low, uninhibited moan of pure, incandescent bliss.

"Gods above, this is incredible!" I breathe, chewing ravenously as the lingering knots in my stomach completely dissolve. The morning's violent nausea feels like a bad dream from another lifetime.

I waste no time scooping up another massive mouthful, the heat spreading straight down to my ribs. Then, my eyes flick toward the side table.

Passing right over the crusty sourdough loaf, my fingers dart straight into the open crock of heavy garlic-brined cucumbers. I pluck out a thick, glistening slice dripping with spiced vinegar. Without a shred of royal decorum, I plunge the sour pickle straight into the heart of the rich beef stew, swirling it through the dark gravy until it's coated, and shove the entire dripping bite into my mouth.

The combination of scalding, peppery beef broth and ice-cold, mouth-puckering sour garlic detonates across my palate.

My eyes fly wide in absolute, stunned shock, my hands trembling around the bowl. A muffled sound of sheer, delirious ecstasy tears from my throat as I crunch violently into the brine-soaked cucumber, savoring the salty, tangy explosion with shameless greed.

Behind me, Vane goes rigid as a wooden post.

His jaw is practically slack, his silver eyes fixed on my face in utter, horrified fascination. The lethal phantom who had just held an imperial vanguard by the throat looks as though he is watching a dark, arcane ritual unfold in his own lap.

"Amelisse," he says, his voice a strained, deadpan rasp of sheer disbelief. "You just dipped a cold garlic pickle into piping-hot brown beef gravy."

"It's perfection," I hum through a mouthful of crunch, already reaching into the crock for a second spear. "Absolute, divine perfection. You don't understand, Vane—the sourness cuts the grease, and the garlic—"

"You're a feral menace," Vane interrupts, a breathless, helpless chuckle breaking through his shock as his chest shakes beneath my back. His arm tightens possessively around my ribs, burying his face into my hair to muffle his laughter. "A highborn Imperial Princess, eating like an unhinged trencherman in an outlaw safe house. Our child is going to come out swinging a cleaver and demanding vinegar, I swear to the gods."