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“I loved you before I ever set eyes on you,” he said. “Please,” Nesryn wept. Sartaq’s hand tightened on hers. “I wish we’d had time.”
“We wait for the Queen of the Valg,” the spider purred, rubbing against the carving. “Who in this world calls herself Maeve.”
Duva traced gentle, idle lines over her full womb with that knife, barely disturbing the fabric of her gown.
A baby.
“You did,” he said, smiling. “Yrene, in every way that truly matters … You did.”
Wife—his wife.
