Chapter 38

The grainy sonogram felt cool beneath my fingertips. A tiny, blurry shape. My breath hitched. *Pregnant.* The word still felt alien, a foreign concept lodging itself in my mind. I hadn’t envisioned this. Not really. Jackson, however, had. His hand, calloused and strong, rested gently on my shoulder. I could feel the warmth radiating through the thin fabric of my shirt; a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to permeate everything else. He’d been fussing over me since the news—fetching water, bringing me blankets. The constant, quiet hum of his concern was a small island of calm in a storm-tossed sea. Outside, the wind howled a mournful song, rattling the shutters of our small stone cottage. A grey sky pressed down, mirroring the heavy weight in my chest. The impending war cast a long, chilling shadow over everything, even the usually vibrant scent of woodsmoke from the hearth felt muted, stifled. The rhythmic thud of boots echoed from the training yard. Jackson’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the air. The guards moved with practiced efficiency, their movements a blur of steel and leather under the bruised twilight sky. Inside, Beth’s hands flew over Belinda’s, guiding her through the complex power weaving. Sweat beaded on their foreheads; the air crackled with raw energy. My own power thrummed—a low, insistent pulse that mirrored the pounding of my heart. Aliza, heavy with child, sat by the fire, her face pale and drawn. Danny wouldn’t let her near the training yard. “You’re not sitting this out, Zoe,” Jackson said, his voice softer now, his eyes searching mine. He sat beside me, his hand still on my shoulder. His touch, usually so reassuring, now felt heavy with unspoken anxieties. I met his gaze, the sonogram still clutched in my hand. “I’m not,” I said, my voice firm, a quiet defiance against the looming storm and the unspoken fears that whispered in the shadows. My hand tightened around the small picture; this life, growing within me, was another kind of fight.

“Carnival tonight?” Jackson’s grin flashed, bright as the midday sun slicing through the dining hall window. The clatter of cutlery faded as he continued, “Fair food, games… Ferris wheel.” The aroma of roasting corn and frying onions, thick and sweet, hung heavy in the air, a sharp contrast to the polished wood and hushed formality of the hall. I couldn’t help but smile. His enthusiasm was contagious, a warm current against the cool, crisp air conditioning. My reply was simple, a quiet nod, but my eyes, I hoped, conveyed the thrill that mirrored his own. The prospect of swirling lights, the scent of popcorn, the giddy rush of the Ferris wheel – it was a delicious escape, already painting itself across my mind.

The leftover scent of garlic and oregano clung to the air, a faint memory of lunch, even as the carnival’s vibrant chaos thrummed from the street below. Upstairs, the cheap floral wallpaper seemed to blur as Jackson’s hand tightened on my waist. His tongue found the mark on my neck, a sharp, sweet sting that drew a gasp from me. He spun me, a dizzying whirl before he lifted me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. Pressed against the wall, his mouth found mine, urgent and demanding. My mouth parted under the insistent pressure of his tongue, a fiery pulse igniting in my core. “I want you, Jackson,” I breathed, the words lost in the breathless tangle of our kiss. His kisses trailed a fiery path down my jaw, my neck, the rough stubble a delightful contrast against my skin. He laid me gently on the bed, the worn cotton sheets cool beneath my back. A sharp rip, and my favorite lace panties lay discarded. “Hey! Those were my favorites,” I protested, a playful edge to my voice. “I’ll buy you a million more,” he murmured, his fingers spreading my legs, his tongue finding its mark, a precise, exquisite pressure against my most sensitive point. My head arched back, a moan escaping my lips, escalating into a cry as his pace quickened, a finger joining the dance, pushing me to the very edge. “Jackson!” I screamed his name, the sound echoing the shattering release that consumed me. “I could listen to you scream my name like that for the rest of my life,” he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. Suddenly, I was on top, his shorts already discarded. Without a word, I took him into my mouth, the taste of him both shocking and exhilarating. A hiss, a guttural moan – his name ripped from his throat. I moved my mouth, savoring the sounds he made, the low growl that preceded his climax. “I’m coming undone,” he groaned, the words barely audible. I accelerated my rhythm, hearing his name again, a desperate cry that ended in a shuddering release filling my mouth. I swallowed it all, licking my lips as I looked at him, a shared, silent understanding passing between us. Together, we rose and headed to the shower, the steam promising a soothing balm to our heated passion.

Steam hung thick in the air, clinging to the cool tile. Water cascaded down my back as Jackson’s hands, strong and sure, spun me around. Before I could gasp, he lifted me, his body pressing against mine, a hard, warm weight. A moan escaped my lips as he entered me, deep and urgent. My head lolled back against the cool, slick wall, eyes squeezed shut. The feel of him—deep, relentless—was a tidal wave. “Open your eyes,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against the shower’s roar. “I want you to see me when you come undone.” Obediently, I opened my eyes. His gaze locked onto mine, and a jolt shot through me—a dizzying rush that stole the breath from my lungs. Stars exploded behind my eyelids. My body felt weightless, floating in a sea of sensation. A tremor built, a delicious, agonizing tightening in my core, then a shattering release. I arched, my body convulsing around him, clutching, shuddering. He didn’t falter, his rhythm unwavering even as my climax subsided. Then, another wave. This one was different—fiercer, more intense. A primal, involuntary spasm ripped through me, a shock so powerful it left me breathless, trembling. A damp warmth spread between my legs; I felt a fleeting, almost comical, sense of having lost control. At the same moment, his own release hit him—a shuddering gasp against my skin. He kissed my neck, the dampness of his lips lingering there. “You’re a squirter,” he whispered, his voice laced with amusement.