Epilogue
What We've Woven
June
2 Years Later
I waddle—yes, waddle, there’s no dignified way to put it—across our kitchen, trying to reach the jar of pickles on the top shelf. At seven months pregnant, my center of gravity has shifted to somewhere in the next county, and climbing on counters is firmly in the “absolutely not” category according to my overprotective spider husband.
“Riven!” I call out, knowing he can feel the vibrations of my voice through his web network that spans our entire home. “Pickle emergency!”
Within seconds, I hear the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of eight legs scrambling across the ceiling. Most people would find this terrifying. I find it adorable.
Riven drops gracefully from the ceiling, landing in a perfect crouch that makes my pregnant knees jealous. His eyes narrow as he assesses the situation with tactical precision.
“The pickles are approximately two inches beyond your current reach capabilities,” he observes, plucking the jar from the shelf and unscrewing it with one easy motion. “I’ll start placing it lower. But only if you reconsider the baby name I suggested last night.”
“Not happening, even if you hold my pickles hostage.”
The truth is, we’ve spent months arguing about baby names, which isn’t easy when one of you comes from a culture where names have forty-seven syllables and change three times throughout your life based on achievements. Riven’s full Vyder name translates roughly to “He Who Weaves Beauty From Darkness And Once Caught A Really Big Deer.” Riven is just the first two syllables of it.
I finish my pickle and stroke the impressive curve of my belly. “I still like Morgan.”
“Morgan,” Riven repeats, his voice softening as he places one of his hands alongside mine. “It is… acceptable.”
Coming from Riven, that’s practically a declaration of love for the name.
He crouches lower, bringing his face level with my stomach, and begins chattering softly in the clicking, rhythmic language of Vyders. He does this every day: tells our baby stories about his homeland, about the mountain, about us. I don’t understand a word, but the gentle vibration of his voice against my skin makesthe baby wiggle and kick, which never fails to make Riven’s eyes widen with wonder.
“Strong,” he murmurs, switching back to English. “Our offspring will have excellent predatory instincts.”
“Great,” I deadpan. “Can’t wait for the parent-teacher conferences. ‘Mrs. Hartwell, Morgan tried to wrap Tommy in silk during recess again.’”
Riven looks up at me, utterly serious. “That would demonstrate advanced fine motor control for their age. We should be proud.”
I can’t help but laugh, running my fingers affectionately over his mandibles. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I am not cute,” he growls, standing to his full twelve-foot height. “I am a fearsome predator species capable of—”
“—of spending three hours rearranging the nursery web because you read an article about optimal sleep positioning,” I finish for him, patting his chest plate. “Absolutely terrifying.”
His mandibles click in irritation, but his eyes are soft as they track my movements. I’ve learned to read those eyes so well; they’re like a mood ring for his emotions. Right now, they’re radiating pure adoration.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, one leg gently curling around my waist in support. “Your blood pressure appears normal, and your scent indicates proper hormonal balance, but your posture suggests lower back discomfort.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, though my back is killing me. “Just tired. Carrying around an extra twenty pounds isn’t exactly a cakewalk.”
“Twenty-three pounds,” he corrects automatically. “I’ve been tracking your weight gain to ensure optimal offspring development.”
Only Riven could make obsessive weight monitoring sound like an act of devotion.
“Come,” he says, scooping me into his arms before I can object. “You require rest.”
He carries me from our modern kitchen into the natural cavern that makes up the heart of our home. The space has changed dramatically in the two years we’ve been together. What was once a stark, utilitarian workspace is now a warm living area filled with comfortable furniture scaled for both human and Vyder proportions. Riven’s magnificent tapestries hang on the stone walls, their luminescent threads catching the light.
But the most significant change is in the back of the cavern, where an elaborate network of silk hammocks and protective webbing forms our bedroom and the nursery beyond it.
Riven gently deposits me in our main hammock, a masterpiece of engineering that adjusts perfectly to my ever-changing body. The silk is cool against my skin, instantly relieving the ache in my lower back.
