Now—about my mother.
I know. I know. She can be as warm as glacial stone. She believes duty must always trump delight. But that’s not your way. And if I know anything at all, it’s that your way is usually right. All I ask is a little more patience. You’ve already softened her more than she’ll ever admit.
And now I must beg one more thing of you.
Tonight, slip out to the garden again. Just like last night. No guards. No gowns. Just us, beneath the moons. The selari are still in bloom, and I need to feel your body pressed against mine beneath their pale light. I need to hear you whisper my name as I worship every inch of the woman who made a prince into a man and a man into a king.
I didn’t know I was capable of this kind of happiness. You’ve made me believe in miracles, in second chances, in destinies not bound by blood but born from soul.
I thank the stars for you every day. I love you with a thousand lifetimes’ worth of longing. And tonight, like every night since you came through that portal and into my arms, I plan to show you just how much.
Forever yours,
Orion
Your husband. Your mate. Your devoted king.
Rye,
I survived.
Tea with the queen and my mother was something between a diplomatic summit and a bare-knuckle brawl disguised in crystal teacups and polite smiles. I think the palace staff aged five years just listening through the door.
I said maybe ten words the entire time, which, honestly, was a blessing. Watching those two go at it was like witnessing the collision of galaxies—graceful, destructive, impossible to look away from. But at least for once, the spotlight wasn’t on me.
The good news? My mother is heading home soon (with an entire suitcase stuffed with selari seeds, by the way; she’s determined to “colonize the front yard with alien botany”—her words, not mine). Your mother will be retiring to the dower palace in a few zeniths.
I’ll miss our dads, though. Watching Walter and the king exchange telescope specs and theories about solar anomalies was surprisingly heartwarming. If those two had met earlier in life, they would’ve built an observatory and a speakeasy in the same week. They’re going to make incredible grandparents.
Yes. That was me slipping the word in like it was no big deal.
Grandparents.
Because…drum roll…
I’m pregnant.
I thought about telling you face to face. I thought about planning something elaborate or ceremonial or poetic. But our story began with ink and paper. With the scratch of pen against parchment and words that crossed galaxies to reach each other. It felt right to let this truth fly to you in the same way.
I might only have one heart, but there’s a whole new heartbeat inside me. A whole new constellation sparked into being. Part you, part me, all stardust.
I don’t know what kind of child we’ll raise—dreamer or fighter, ruler or artist, or something else entirely. But I do know this: With you beside me, this baby will be loved, completely and fiercely, the way only two fated mates could possibly manage.
Now please come to me.
I would’ve requested our usual rendezvous in the gardens, but your heir is currently sapping every drop of my energy, and I suspect I’ll fall asleep as soon as you’ve finished worshipping every inch of your thoroughly exhausted, thoroughly enchanted wife.
So meet me in our bedchamber, under the glowspun sheets.
Bring your hands. Your mouth. Your love.
Hurry.
Forever your Stardust (and now the mother of your child),
Dani
P.S. No, I haven’t told Libby yet. I told you first. But I’m calling her on the crystals now while I wait for you to come to me.
