Page 71 of The Hood and his Thief

Nate scowled—an expression known to send grown men running away with their tails between their legs—but Contessa stared him down coolly.

“I won’t leave you unprotected,” Nate growled. “Not when you’ve been ill recently.”

“I’m not ill.” Contessa looked down at her lap.

“But—”

“You can tell I’m not lying,” Contessa snapped.

Rhosyn looked at her friend more closely, seeing her pallor and the circles under her eyes in a new light. Guilt began to gnaw at her belly for not noticing how drawn she appeared and for laying these concerns at Contessa’s feet when she already shouldered too many troubles. Maybe she and Ansel could solve this problem without bringing Contessa into it.

“I can tell you’re not telling me everything though,” Nate argued, standing and squaring on his wife, completely ignoring the others in the room. “You barely gave me any information on what the doctor said last week.”

“I wanted to wait to tell you until you weren’t so busy worrying about what happened with Rhosyn,” Contessa said softly.

“Tell me what? If you need treatment, I want to know as soon as possible. We can go anywhere you need for the best—”

“We’re having a baby.”

The room froze as Contessa stared up through her lashes at her husband. Nobody breathed at all. The thuds of Nate’s boots against the floor echoed loudly as he stumbled back a few steps, before sitting down heavily on the top of the desk.

“You’re…pregnant?”

“We’ve been trying so long. I just wanted to be sure before I told you,” Contessa’s voice had softened to something full of hesitant joy.

Rhosyn looked over to Nate, his scowling face blooming into an expression softer than it had any right to be, with the fearsome scar bisecting his face. It was the way he looked at Contessa when they were first married, every time he didn’t think anybody was looking—back when he didn’t think there was any way she might love him.

Warmth bloomed in Rhosyn’s chest—a delicate tendril of hope springing forth amid the darkness of recent events.

“I guess we do really have to redecorate the rose room,” Nate mumbled, shell shocked. “We’re going to need a nursery.”

Contessa stood slowly and took a few steps forward, to stand between his knees. Nate’s hands drifted to her waist and pulled her closer. He buried her face in her hair and breathed in shakily, paying no heed to the delicate mass of braids that must have taken hours to weave together.

“You’re definitely not going anywhere without me,” Nate declared into Contessa’s hair.

At that, she stepped back, not far enough to force him to let go of her waist, but enough that he had to lift his head and meet her gaze.

“No. This is exactly why we have to do this.” Contessa’s tone brooked no argument. “I want our baby to know that we always do what must be done. They are likely going to be Talented, with the two of us as their parents. I do not want them born into a world where they have to fear their Talent, like we did. If we fail to catch the Gowers, that is exactly what might happen.”

“I won’t let you go alone,” Nate said, his voice the closest to pleading it had ever been.

Rhosyn sprang to her feet. “She won’t be alone.”

In a few strides, she had crossed the room and slung her arm around Contessa’s shoulder. The shorter woman smiled up at her fondly.

“You know I would walk over broken glass for both of you, and my future niece or nephew,” Rhosyn added.

“You have also done much stupider things for much less important reasons,” Nate pointed out, but his gaze softened.

“Even more proof that I won’t hesitate to do what needs to be done.”

“I’ll be there too,” Ansel volunteered, joining them all in standing, stepping up at Rhosyn’s shoulder.

“And you think you have what it takes to protect my wife? And my sister?” Nate looked at Ansel appraisingly.

Before he answered, Ansel leaned forwards and picked up one of Nate’s knives off the desk before him. He tossed it in his palm a few times as if testing its weight. Then, his wrist whipped forward faster than Rhosyn could blink.

A thud punctuated the air as the tip embedded itself into the wall above the shelf that served as a bar. Pinned to the knife was the cork of a bottle of whiskey, neatly removed by Ansel’s throw.