I had morning sickness the entire pregnancy, horrible nightmares that lingered long after I woke, and terrible hot flashes that had Alexander installing a ceiling fan and four Dyson floor fans in our bedroom just so I could scrape together a few hours of sleep at night.
It was grueling, but we loved every minute of it. And by some silent agreement, we were careful about making too many plans for the baby once he or she arrived. We didn’t learn the gender, we didn’t pick out names, and we only had a crib back at home because Riddick had built one for us as a baby present.
It was stupid for two mature adults to believe it was possible to jinx it, but we’d lived through such trials and heartbreak for so long, we didn’t want to take any chances.
So, we didn’t have a name for the little earl that lay in my arms.
But as I peered down at his perfect, handsome little face, I thought of a name that was all too perfect for him.
“What about Aidon?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at the man who had burst into my life and dragged me through hell in order to give me a kingdom we could one day call our own. “Aides or Aidoneus is one of the lesser-known names of Hades.”
Alexander’s beautiful, strong face melted into one of his rare open smiles as he chuckled. “Only my wife would want to name our child after the Greek god of the Underworld.”
“Only your wife would understand just how much the story of Hades and Persephone means to me, to us,” I countered. “Hades is a misunderstood god, but he maintained balance and harmony between good and evil. He was a fair and just ruler with great responsibility, just as our son will be one day.”
I looked down at our gift as he shifted his little furled hand into his mouth, and I knew in a newly discovered chamber of my heart where motherhood sat and pulsed that the little man on my chest was going to be one of the greatest men who ever lived.
“Aidon,” Alexander tested, his accent carving the name smooth and clean like sculpted marble. “Aidon Dante Joseph Davenport, seventh Earl of Thornton and heir to the Dukedom of Greythorn.” He ran his big hand gently over the baby’s head as if metaphorically crowning him with his titles. “Yes, I think Aidon will suit him just fine.”
“I love you,” I told him fiercely as the feeling brutalized my chest and made it difficult to breathe. “If I had to go back, I would choose to be your slave again and again. I don’t want our enslavement to each other to ever end.”
My husband leaned down to press his forehead to mine, one hand still cupping the back of Aidon’s soft head. I kept my eyes open, gaze sank deep in the perforated silver of his gorgeous eyes.
“Thank you for giving me a gift I never thought to ask for,” he said quietly, his tone so genuine it made my heart ache. “I promise to prove myself worthy of it, of you and our child, every single bloody day for the rest of our lives.”
“I know,” I said before I sealed his promise with a kiss. “You are the best man I know, and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I already know just how worthy you are.”
Alexander
Four years later.
Pearl Hall echoed like church bells in an ancient tower with the peeling, silver laughter of many children dancing, playing, and racing through its halls. Theodore and Genevieve Sinclair took turns sliding down the great, curving bannister of the staircase in the Great Hall as Riddick looked on as a stern supervisor, only cracking a smile when Genny demanded he stand at the bottom and high five her on her way down. Two of the Davenport triplets giggled ceaselessly as their aunt Elena and uncle Dante blew kisses into their sweet baby rolls of fat and tickled the swell of their little bellies from where they lay inside their playpen set up in the informal living room. The adults argued good-naturedly over which of the brothers was cuter, Edward or Dorian, and both babies screamed in delight as if adding their own opinions to the debate. Mama held the only Davenport girl, the last triplet born, a small thing made of golden skin and curling ink-stained hair with eyes already turned a brightly polished silver. She cooed to little Poppy in a serious tone, imparting wisdom in dialect Italian the eleven-month-old girl couldn’t yet understand. Still, Poppy pressed her little fist to Mama’s softly creased cheek as if she comprehended each word. Giselle sat on the loveseat before the fire curled up beside her husband, who read from ’Twas the Night Before Christmas aloud for the benefit of the preteen girl lying belly down on the Persian carpet with her chocolate-stained face cupped in her hands as she listened. When she interrupted the story to protest, Elena shot her daughter a long, lingering look that spoke volumes and shut down the girl with a grumbled apology as she settled back in to listen.