The Primordial Flame

Finding a latch.

Arden steps forward with measured, deliberate care, easing Elowen back into my hold. "Here you go, Ame," he murmurs, his face still lit with the quiet awe of having held her. "One pristine, unbroken princess, returned as promised."

The second her cheek brushes the wool of my tunic, Elowen's instincts take over. Her little head bobs frantically against my chest, mouth parting as she lets out tiny, impatient grunts, suckling the thin air and rooting eagerly for milk. The sharp, frantic tug of her hunger triggers an immediate, warm let-down behind my ribs.

"Arden, could you fetch that heavy wool blanket from the bench by the hearth?" I ask softly, already turning my steps toward the deep, high-backed armchair tucked into the shadowed alcove near the fire.

"On it," Arden replies without missing a beat, turning smoothly to retrieve the woven fleece.

I sink into the wide wooden chair with a quiet sigh of relief, my hips and lower back grateful for the cushioned wolf pelt beneath me.

Cradling Elowen's bobbing head against my elbow, I reach up with my free hand to loosen the leather laces at the throat of my forest-green tunic, peeling the fabric aside to free my swollen, heavy breast.

A looming shadow falls over me before I can even bare an inch of skin.

Vane closes the distance in two massive strides, Evander still snuggled fast asleep against the crook of his shoulder. He plants his heavy boots squarely between my chair and the rest of the great hall, his broad back forming an impenetrable wall of dark wool and leather that cuts off every line of sight from the benches.

"Easy, girl," Vane mutters down toward Elowen, though his fierce gray eyes sweep the perimeter of the room like a hawk tracking wolves. "She's working on it. Hold your horses."

Arden arrives a second later, carrying the thick wool blanket. Seeing Vane squared off like a fortress gate, Arden wisely extends the blanket around Vane’s broad shoulder without intruding an inch into the alcove.

"Blanket, Lady Ame," Arden says with a dry, knowing smirk at the back of Vane's rigid head. "Before the lieutenant decides to blind the entire guild to protect your modesty."

"Hand it over and keep your eyes on the rafters, Arden," Vane growls, taking the heavy wool with one scarred hand and shaking it out.

With practiced, surprising gentleness, Vane drapes the thick fleece over my exposed shoulder and across my chest, creating a warm, private tent around me and our daughter.

Shielded from the draft and the hall, I guide Elowen's rooting mouth to my n****e. She latches instantly with a fierce, eager tug that draws a sharp hiss of sensation from my throat, her tiny fists curling tight against the warm curve of my breast as she begins to draw steady, rhythmic gulps of milk.

Vane doesn't move an inch. He remains planted right at my knee, his towering frame completely obscuring the scene from Jax, Bram, and the rest of the mercenaries. His free hand reaches down through the edge of the blanket, his rough, warm thumb brushing lightly across Elowen's soft copper curls, then smoothing over the bare skin above my collarbone.

"Good latch?" he rumbles softly, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register meant only for my ears. His gray eyes soften as he looks down at the pair of us, the rigid tension in his broad shoulders finally yielding to that fierce, unyielding protectiveness that has kept us alive.

"She’s fierce," I say softly, leaning back into the cushions with a slow, contented breath as Elowen feeds with determined greed. "Surprisingly, her brother is more gentle."

My gaze lifts to Evander, who remains tucked peacefully against his father's broad chest, completely unbothered by the raucous laughter still echoing across the timber tables. One tiny, pale fist rests curled beneath his chin, his dark curls pressed into the rough wool of Vane’s vest.

A low, affectionate rumble vibrates in Vane's throat as he glances down from his watch.

"Of course she’s fierce," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the downy copper fringe peeking from under the blanket. "She inherited all of her mother’s stubborn fire. Gods help whatever poor bastard ever tries to tell that girl no, she’ll gut him before he finishes the sentence."

He shifts his weight slightly, looking down at our sleeping son with a rare, gentle curve to his mouth that softens the hard angles of his scarred face.

"And him..." Vane’s voice drops into a gravelly whisper, his large hand cupping the back of Evander's head with infinite care. "Don't let the quiet fool you, Ame. The quiet ones are the trackers. They watch, they wait, and they strike when no one’s looking. He’s just saving his strength so he can help me keep his sister out of trouble."

He crouches down on one knee beside the arm of my chair, bringing himself level with us. With Evander resting securely against his forearm, Vane reaches his free hand beneath the edge of the fleece, his rough knuckles grazing my cheek before settling warm against the crook of my neck.

"You gave me a wildfire and an anchor," Vane rumbles softly, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that shuts out the entire world. "Both of them perfect. Just like their mother."

"And their father," I add softly, leaning into the rough, steady heat of his knuckles at my throat.

Before Vane can formulate a gruff, bashful retort, the rhythmic, wet gulping beneath the fleece breaks the silence of our private alcove. Evander’s tiny nose wrinkles. His brown curls brush against Vane’s jaw as his little head begins to bob with frantic, sudden urgency.

Stirred awake by the familiar scent of milk and the sound of his sister feasting, Evander’s instinct fires instantly. His mouth parts in a round, desperate circle, snuffling against the coarse wool of Vane’s dark doublet. Finding only rough fabric, the boy butts his chin forward, rooting with furious determination until he finds the warm, exposed skin at the base of his father's throat, and attempts with all his might to latch right onto the hard cord of Vane’s collarbone.

Vane freezes into a pillar of stone, his storm-gray eyes flying wide.

"Ame," Vane rasps in a strangled, desperate whisper, his broad shoulders locking rigid as our son repeatedly gums his throat with aggressive, milk-drunk ambition. "He's... he's trying to bite me. Ame, what is he doing?"

A breathless, delighted snort escapes my lips, shaking the wool blanket draped over Elowen.

"He's hungry, wolf," I whisper, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud and losing Elowen's latch. "He heard his sister and decided dinner was served. Though I don't think you're going to produce much for him."

Vane swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing under Evander’s frantic little snuffles. The lethal lieutenant of the Mountain Scouts looks utterly defenseless, his ears flushing bright crimson as he tilts his chin back to give the ravenous infant room, clearly terrified of startling the boy.

"Evander, stand down," Vane commands in a low, panicked mutter, his large, scarred hand gently cupping the back of our son's head to keep him from bruising his own nose against bone. "I am not the canteen, you little savage. Cease fire."

Evander responds with an offended, squeaky grunt against Vane's neck, latching onto a fold of his father's linen collar and sucking with desperate, futile resolve.

"He's not taking orders from his commander today," I tease softly, looking up through my lashes as Elowen begins to slow her frantic swallows, drifting toward a milk-drunk haze. "You'll have to wait your turn, little warrior. Your sister got to the high ground first."

"Let him suckle on your finger until she is done," I say softly, the corners of my mouth twitching with pure, unadulterated amusement at his wide-eyed terror. "It won’t be too long, and it will soothe him."

Vane cuts his gray eyes down to me with profound skepticism, looking between my smirking face and the ravenous creature aggressively gnawing on his collarbone.

"My finger?" he mutters, the words a low, gravelly protest. "Ame, I haul rope and skin mountain hare. My hands are like dried tree bark. He's going to spit it out and scream the hall down."

"He just wants the comfort of suckling, wolf," I whisper encouragingly. "Try it. Unless you'd prefer he keep trying to turn your jugular into his personal teat?"

A dark, sheepish grumble rumbles deep in his chest. With agonizing caution, Vane raises his free hand. He turns his knuckles, offering the clean, calloused pad of his pinky finger, nudging it gently against Evander’s parted lips.

The moment the skin grazes his mouth, Evander snaps onto it like a little snapping turtle.

The boy’s frantic rooting ceases instantly. His tiny, pale gums clamp down on Vane’s fingertip, and he begins to draw on it with eager, rhythmic force, his soft brown curls shifting as his forehead relaxes against Vane’s sleeve. A long, shuddering sigh rattles through the infant's chest, his tiny brow smoothing out into peaceful contentment.

Vane stops breathing entirely.

His massive frame remains frozen on one knee, his eyes locked onto our son's face in absolute, breathless disbelief. Slowly, the comical panic drains from his features, replaced by a quiet, reverent awe that softens every harsh, battle-worn line of his face.

"Gods above," Vane rasps, his voice barely a breath against the snap of the hearthfire. "Look at him go."