The Fallen Princess: Unbound

The first contraction stole her breath while laughter still lingered in the air. Zaria kept her smile anyway—bright, effortless, court-perfect—as if her body hadn’t just tightened low beneath silk and warm lanternglow. Across the hall, Christian’s charm carried on, half tease and half warning, and the nobles laughed in all the right places while pretending the word grandson hadn’t shifted something fundamental earlier that night. At the high dais, goblets lifted and lowered in a practiced rhythm, an old court dance performed to hide what everyone was really doing. Measuring. Counting. Repositioning. Smiles held. Eyes sharpened. Calculations moved behind them like pieces sliding across a board no one admitted existed. Zaria’s fingers curled into the tablecloth as it came again—low and tight, insistent. Not pain, not yet, but pressure that drew inward with steady certainty, like the sea tugging at an anchor chain until it decided it was time to move. She drew a measured breath through her nose and let it out slowly, turning the exhale into the softest laugh, as if she’d only grown warm in the crush of bodies and spice-heavy air. Her posture stayed perfect. Her chin stayed lifted. Her face stayed serene. Callen didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. His hand rested at the small of her back, light enough to pass as courtesy, firm enough to steady, and his thumb traced one slow circle before it stopped. A question without words. Zaria tipped her chin a fraction, gaze fixed forward. “I’m fine.” The lie tasted smooth—polished, practiced—until Callen’s jaw flexed once and another contraction gathered low, stronger now, sure as a tide turning. Her smile wavered at the edges before she caught it and set it back into place. Her palm drifted to her stomach as if to adjust the fall of fabric. The baby rolled beneath her hand—deliberate, heavy, awake. Zaria’s breath hitched despite her discipline. Callen felt it. His posture changed so subtly most would miss it, but Zaria knew him the way you knew weather before it broke, by the quiet shift in the air. A slight turn of his shoulders. A careful attention settling into place, protective without becoming visible. “You’re not fine,” he murmured, still facing forward, the words meant only for her. “I can finish the dinner.” Zaria kept her expression serene for the watching eyes. “It’s one night.” Callen’s thumb pressed once, firm and grounding. “It’s never one night.” No anger in it. Only certainty. “Not with them.” Another wave drew tight around her, forcing her fingers to clench. Zaria let out a soft laugh at something a noblewoman nearby offered, as if amusement had stolen her breath, while Callen’s hand shifted. Flattening more fully against her spine, steady warmth through embroidered fabric. “We leave now,” he decided. Zaria held her inhale longer than she should have. Pride rose first, sharp and instinctive, then the next contraction quietly broke it, leaving only reality in its place. She inclined her head as if conceding a point in conversation. “Give me a moment.” Callen’s gaze finally flicked to her profile. Gold eyes sharpened, then softened, the smallest c***k in his control. “You don’t have a moment.” Zaria’s lips parted, then closed again. Callen rose with the smoothness of a man who understood how to move without pulling the room’s attention too hard. His chair made almost no sound. Still, heads turned. They always turned. He leaned in, mouth near her ear, his words a brush of warmth against her skin. “Walk like nothing’s happening. Let them think we’re bored.” Zaria’s pulse stuttered, half laughter, half irritation. “We are bored,” she breathed, keeping her smile in place for the room. A faint curve touched Callen’s mouth. “That’s my wife.” His hand offered itself. Zaria took it. Together, they stood. Across the hall, Christian’s eyes found them—quick, precise, assessing. His expression didn’t change, but his focus locked. Then his gaze slid to Zaria’s stomach, and something unreadable tightened at the corner of his mouth. Go. Zakai saw it too. He shifted from behind them and moved as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment, already easing space open without making it obvious he’d done anything at all. Koen watched from the edge of the room, still as a held breath. His red gaze flicked once to Zaria’s belly, then to Callen’s hand at her back. Something tightened briefly at the corner of his eyes—recognition, not warmth—before his expression smoothed back into careful neutrality. Zaria resisted the urge to grit her teeth. She lifted her chin, gliding forward, every step deliberate, controlled, royal. Half the hall tracked them with curiosity. The other half with something hungrier, an appetite for weakness dressed up as concern. Callen guided her through the hall as if he’d done it a thousand times. His grip never tightened, but she felt the tension in him anyway, held in place by discipline and love, both working hard. At the archway, Zaria’s vision narrowed as another contraction hit, deeper now, as if her body had finally decided it was done waiting for the world to make room. She exhaled slowly, nails biting into Callen’s palm. His fingers laced through hers like he could stitch her back together with touch alone. “Look at me,” he ordered, quiet and steady. Zaria turned her face toward him. For one heartbeat, the court vanished. Only Callen remained, gold eyes steady, mouth set, fear tucked beneath control like embers under ash. “You’re safe,” he told her, voice roughened at the edges. “I’ve got you.” Zaria swallowed, breath trembling despite her best effort. “You’d better.” The barest hint of amusement touched him, then his expression smoothed again. He angled his body between her and the dining room as they crossed the threshold, shielding her from the last reach of watching eyes and listening ears. Their footsteps carried them away from music and scandal, away from glittering smiles and careful attention. The sound behind dulled into a distant thrum—laughter, strings, murmurs—all meaningless now, as if the castle itself had shut a door on it. Zaria made it three turns before her breath snagged. A contraction tightened low and hard, stealing the air straight from her lungs. She stopped without warning, fingers catching in Callen’s sleeve. Her head dipped, white braid sliding forward over her shoulder as she fought to keep the sound inside her throat. Callen didn’t hesitate. He stepped into her space, broad body turning the corridor into privacy, and braced her with practiced ease, one arm around her waist, the other catching her hand and holding it steady like an anchor. “Breathe,” he ordered, voice low. “In. Now out.” Zaria glared up at him through damp lashes. “I am.” “You’re not.” His gaze sharpened, then gentled by a fraction. “Zaria.” The way he said her name—quiet, certain—loosened something tight in her chest. She dragged in a trembling breath, then forced it out slow. Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached, but she stayed upright. Footsteps approached, fast and controlled. Zakai appeared at the far end of the corridor like he’d been there all along. One look took in Zaria’s posture, Callen’s arm secure around her, the rigid line of Callen’s restraint. Zakai moved without asking. “Rooms are ready,” he said, already stripping his gloves as he came closer. “Fires lit. Baths drawn. Saoirse is on her way. Christian sent for her before you stood.” Callen’s eyes flicked. “How long?” “A quarter hour,” Zakai answered. “Less, if she uses her shortcuts.” Zaria let out something between a laugh and a sob. “Of course she has shortcuts.” Another wave rolled through her, harsher than the last, and she swore. Loud this time, raw, and in a way that felt deeply satisfying. Callen’s mouth twitched once, a brief break in his control, then steadied again. “Move,” he told Zakai. Zakai turned ahead and cleared servants and guards with a single glance and a gesture that brooked no argument. Doors opened before they reached them. Cloaks vanished from shoulders. Someone pressed a warm blanket into Zaria’s hands, and she clung to it like it could keep her upright when her body insisted on folding. Rain began as they reached the private wing. At first it tapped at the high windows—delicate, almost polite. By the time Callen shouldered open the door to their chamber, the storm had decided it no longer wished to whisper. Wind rushed onto the balcony. Rain swept sideways in silver sheets, turning the world beyond into a blurred wash of darkness. Inside, the hearth burned high. Heat rolled out in steady waves, the air threaded with pine resin and clean smoke. Lamps set into elegant alcoves cast a soft, even glow across the room, while the candles along the mantel did what they were meant to do, perfume the space with something warm and costly, their flames small and decorative, bending only when the storm worried at the castle’s bones. The room looked almost peaceful. Almost. Zaria barely registered any of it. The moment the door shut, the next contraction hit deep and twisting. Her knees buckled. She clutched Callen’s forearm with both hands, nails digging through fabric. Callen caught her and swore under his breath. Then he lifted her without ceremony, carrying her across the room as if she weighed nothing at all. “You can put me down,” Zaria managed, pride flaring even as her body betrayed her. Callen didn’t slow. “No.” She tried again, voice cracking. “Callen…” “Zaria.” His tone left no room. “You can argue with me tomorrow.” Her throat tightened. A laugh threatened, then turned into something wetter when another wave crashed through her, leaving her shaking and furious at her own helplessness. Callen laid her on the bed and immediately began stripping away obstacles. Her gown loosened, laces undone, heavy embroidered sleeves shoved up. He moved with the steadiness of a man who had learned how to keep his hands calm when everything else fell apart, like calm was something you could build out of sheer will. Zaria watched him through blurred vision, then squeezed her eyes shut as the next contraction tore through her. “Callen,” she panted, voice trembling. “I can’t…” “You can.” This time something bled through the command, fear wrapped tight in determination. He grabbed a cloth from the bowl beside the bed and pressed it to her forehead, fingers sweeping her dampening hair back with a gentleness that didn’t match the hard set of his jaw. “Look at me.” Zaria forced her eyes open. Callen stood over her, face lit gold and orange by the hearth’s glow. His jaw was set, but his eyes, those golden eyes, were wide. Zaria swallowed hard, breath catching. “Stop looking like that.” His mouth tightened. “Like what.” “Like you’re about to break,” she said, sharper than she meant. “You don’t get to look helpless. Not you.” His fingers paused in her hair, then curled, gripping gently as if anchoring himself to something real. “I can’t make this better,” he admitted, voice low, stripped of pretense. “I can only stay.” Something in Zaria’s chest burned, part anger, part love, part terror she refused to name. Outside, thunder cracked so hard the windows shuddered. Rain pressed harder. The castle groaned. And inside her, her body tightened again, unrelenting and unstoppable, pulling her forward whether the world was ready or not.