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Every word of that is accurate. These last couple of weeks have been perfect. Every morning, I rise early to make coffee or tea, then wake her up with my mouth between her luscious thighs. She goes back to sleep, and I venture out to catch our dinner. Sometimes, she comes with me; other times, she lounges, reads, and enjoys her alone time. We order groceries, sometimes on my phone, sometimes on hers. She’s teaching me how to use more tech. We play cards. We watch stupid television shows and sometimes good ones. I enjoy nature documentaries, but I’m happy to sit through anything that captures Stasi’s attention when not chopping firewood, sharpening tools, or repairing the dock. We spend the rest of our days watching birds, hiking, and teaching Stasi how to swim and paddle all the various watercraft.
In the evening, we enjoy dinner by the fire, or indoors on alternate nights when Stasi wants to cook for me.
At night, we cuddle, we fuck, we cuddle-fuck. We try all the things the other hasn’t done before.
“A girl could get used to kisses like that,” she purrs.
“Good. Because that won’t change once I make you my wife.”
A flush creeps over her cheeks, and she bites her lip.
“On that note, I’m ready.”
“To do it in the butt? Good. Let’s go.”
“No!” she giggles.
“Oh, you mean to marry me. Good. Let’s go.”
Stasi giggles and squeezes my middle with her soft but strong thighs.
“I’m ready to have a baby with you.”
My hands remain on her bottom, and I stare deeply into her eyes. “Are you sure?”
She nods.
“What changed your mind?” I need her to tell me every last moment of her thought process. This is a lot to ask of her, and I feel guilty that I even let that slip out.
“You take care of me. You’re so much fun. I like the way you see the world, and I love your compassionate nature. You’re good to me even when I don’t listen to your advice. You’re patient and kind. Your sister adores you, which speaks volumes to me. I know you’ll make a wonderful father…one day. And I know things might change once we return to the real world, but I have good instincts about people. When it’s right, it’s right. So let’s do it.”
All the while she’s been talking, I’ve been fighting back the lump in my throat. “I’m so…damn…happy.”
Her eyes shining, her throat bobbing, she kisses me with trembling lips. Then she drops the bomb. “Good, because the stick just turned pink.”
25
Stasi
Six months later
Sigurd and I have agreed to keep the pregnancy a secret for as long as possible.
As he should, the prince insists I see a doctor to ensure everything is normal.
I remind him that the cat will be out of the bag sooner or later with all these doctor visits. Because, of course, there’s no way he’ll let me go anywhere alone. Not because he doesn’t trust me but because he just doesn’t want to leave my side. It’s so freaking endearing, so I can’t fault him for that.
We’ve compromised by booking a doctor after hours and under a different name. I’m not sure how he made that happen, but he did.
As expected, everything is fine with the baby. I hear about new mothers who are nervous at every stage of pregnancy, but I’m strangely calm. I’m nauseous in the first trimester, but not overly so. In the second trimester, I only want cured meat, salty junk food, and milkshakes. Sigurd is a good man who indulges these cravings most days, so I compromise by letting him cook me something wholesome at least three times a week. Eating food cooked over the fire agrees with me and with the baby.
With some finagling of the property management company, I’ve extended the lease on the cabin indefinitely. And I continued to pay Suzanna rent until she could find another housemate. Quitting my waitressing job did not break my heart. For all these reasons, I’ve had to accept help from Sigurd. Not even a massive gratuity from a royal icon can stretch that far.
I’ve grown to love living here. It’s quiet and peaceful, and the fresh air makes my skin and hair glow. That could also be the pregnancy hormones.
The winter is mild and passes like a dream. We celebrate Christmas with handmade gifts and hot cocoa by the fire. I make him a gnome home from tree bark, rocks, sticks, and glue. Sigurd presents me with a handmade blade that he forged on his own, with a hand-carved hilt and leather scabbard. I have no idea how he kept that a secret from me, but the man has his ways.
Perhaps all the work of crafting a knife for me was therapeutic, kept him busy, and helped him forget that people are looking for him.
