Shattered: An Urban Romantic Fantasy Read online

  I felt and heard my father in the back of my head. I hated the man, but he was here, with me. I wasn’t alone. How he could do this—this telepathy—I did not understand. But I accepted his help.

  This would be the only time.

  Horrifying pressure. My grunts.

  Her head popped out, with a momentary release of pressure.

  My feet dropped, heavy, onto the ground, and I looked at her purple head.

  The shoulders. I needed to push out the shoulders.

  A chilled touch iced my abdomen, and I gasped. A fae. Invisible, but I’d felt the creature. It tapped my belly, and I knew it wanted me to push.

  Why was it here? What did it want? Horrified that I very well knew what it wanted, I yelled, “Don’t take my baby. Don’t take my baby!”

  I sucked in a breath and pushed. My baby couldn’t stay stuck halfway.

  Once her shoulder was clear of my pelvis, she slid right out onto the moss.

  I sighed with relief and almost collapsed backward, but she wasn’t crying. I had to act. With shaking hands, I picked her up—slimy, slippery, and covered in blood and fluids. Bits of moss clung to her. I needed to clear her nose and mouth, so I put her face up to mine and did the most disturbing thing I had ever done.

  Like reverse resuscitation, I sucked the mucus out by placing my mouth over her mouth and nose. Salty, coppery-tasting fluid filled my mouth, so I spit it out. Running low on energy, afraid that I might pass out before I heard my daughter cry, I pulled my shirt up over my stomach and breasts and laid her between them while I summoned my remaining energy to rub her back.

  “Breathe!” I willed her lungs to work. I could see them in my mind’s eye. Breathe, little girl.

  I rubbed her harder, stimulating her circulation. The cord still held her attached between my legs. Something inside me, an intuition, guided me. Just as I had coached my body to open, I searched in her precious body and envisioned my inner fire warming her.

  I willed life into her.

  I could see her lungs move.

  Finally, she let out a cough, and then a wail.

  Relief. Immense relief filled me, so much so that tears welled in my eyes.

  I clutched her to my chest, fearful the fae might take her.

  But they kept their icy hands to themselves.

  Maybe they didn’t want her. Maybe they were dirty little pervs that had wanted a good show the night I’d conceived.

  Maybe they would help me now. “Find Cystenian!” I yelled at the fae. “Open that portal and bring him to me. Cystenian!”

  My daughter wailed her tiny, high-pitched cries. I had startled her.

  “It’s okay, baby.” I lay down and pulled my shirt over her naked body. There she was, bundled to me. Both of us, a horrifying mess. I smoothed my hand over her back, wondering how I would manage the rest, the afterbirth. Her punctuated cries surged from her red body—her circulation was excellent. Amused by the pair of lungs on her, I shut my eyes, beyond exhausted.

  I didn’t bother hushing her.

  It could have been a heartbeat later, it could have been several minutes, but something warm touched my shoulder.

  Not a fae.

  Weary, I cracked my eyelids open.

  Golden curls.

  Emerald eyes.

  My eyes closed. “Cystenian,” I whispered, “They brought you.”

  “Hush, it’s all right. There’s nothing to fear.” He reached under my shirt and smoothed his hand over our daughter. “Little one, don’t cry.”

  She calmed instantly and fell asleep.

  I’ll have to remember that trick.

  A weight engulfed me—Cystenian’s cloak, warm from his body. He bundled me tightly, hiding my half-naked body. As he scooped the two of us into his arms, I leaned my head against his shoulder and nuzzled our baby.

  It was over. I was safe and rocked in comfort as Cystenian carried us.

  He had returned.

  My angel once again.

  FOURTEEN

  The room was sunshiny. I narrowed my eyes as I fought waking up. Through eye slits, I could tell it was much too cheery, but I had every reason to feel as brilliant as the day. My daughter was healthy, and I was here, with Cystenian.

  Wherever here was.

  He had brought me to his family’s estate. I assumed that was on the planet Emira because we’d gone through the same portal—the portal that had finally opened.

  I needed to figure out how that happened. I was thoroughly annoyed that the portal hadn’t opened for me.

  After my traumatic delivery, I fell sound asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow and I was sure our daughter was secure in Cystenian’s arms.

  He assured me they would both be here when I awoke. I had an unusual sense of trust when it came to this man I’d met only once. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “You have to tell her,” a young woman said in a hushed voice.

  That caught my attention. I glanced across the enormous, plush space. These people did not live in squalor. It’s an estate, Anerah. Cystenian is loaded.

  Half of the walls were mostly windows thrown open for a glorious summer afternoon to roll in. They were a season ahead of the northern hemisphere on Earth. I could have been outside, with the chirping birds, if it weren’t for the stone walls and floors on the room’s far side.

  Cystenian sat under the closest window on a love seat, holding our child. A radiant woman, with hair in a much lighter, but still amazing, shade of blonde as Cystenian’s, was leaning over the partially bundled baby, tickling her feet.

  She was a girl. I remembered that much. The sonogram had been right.

  “Bron,” Cystenian said, “I can’t do this to her. She just bore my child. It’ll crush her.”

  They didn’t know I was awake. I thanked my luck that my daughter drew their attention, just enough that I could continue to eavesdrop.

  “It doesn’t matter when you tell her,” the woman said. “It’ll crush her regardless.”

  I drew in a breath and froze. What if he’s married? Oh no. Oh no.

  Her voice dropped lower. “She’s smitten with you. You can sense her feelings.”

  My cheeks grew hot. Of course I was smitten with Cystenian.

  His index finger drew circles on my daughter’s cheek. “Shh. That’s not my fault. She’s had nine long months to fantasize about me. Naturally, her feelings had developed while she was carrying my child. We were all she thought about.”

  “You knew what fae spells did.”

  “There was nothing I could have done. Nothing. Anerah and I fought them off as long as we could.” Cystenian’s voice developed an edge. “And I tried to open the portal.”

  At least he tried. I let go of my breath and attempted to breathe normally.

  “You didn’t try hard enough,” the woman said.

  “If only those blasted fae had opened the portal sooner.”

  I grimaced. If only. My wish as well.

  The woman looked up. “Anerah. You’re awake.”

  Uh yeah, and who might you be? I peeked out of one eye. “Hello.”

  She took a few steps forward, in a loose, swishy gown. My thought—Greek goddess? “I’m Bronwen. Cystenian’s sister. I’m thrilled to finally meet you. He told me about your encounter with the fae. We’re lucky it wasn’t anything worse.”

  Lucky? What else could they do? I sat up in the bed, surprisingly with no trouble at all. “Are you crazy? Getting knocked up isn’t anything worse?”

  “Knocked up?”

  I winced and shook my head. They were going to need a translation for Earth slang. “Pregnant. With child. That’s what knocked up means.”

  Cystenian nodded, but Bronwen quirked her brow.

  He continued, as if we weren’t from two separate worlds. “We were lucky.” Cystenian stroked our daughter’s hair—red hair. Light orange, in fact.

  “How do you feel?” Bronwen asked.

  I felt remarkably well. I expect
ed to feel as if my insides had been torn apart, my bottom at least. I rubbed my stomach. It was flat! I lifted the covers and peeked underneath. No granny panties? Mom had told me I’d be wearing granny panties with giant pads to catch the blood. I had nothing on under my gown, and the bed wasn’t pooling with blood.

  “Holy crap. Did I even have a baby?” I asked.

  “While you were sleeping, the healer looked at you,” Bronwen said. “Your body’s completely mended.”

  “Are you serious? That’s possible?” I still had lingering pregnancy fat, but I would take a healed derriere any day.

  Bronwen moved toward the bed. “Absolutely. Don’t your healers restore the body after birth in your world?”

  “It’s not like that. I expected weeks of recovery and a couple of stitches even.”

  Bronwen gasped. “Stitches? What do you mean? Like embroidery?”

  “Well, when a melon-sized head comes out of your vagina, things rip.” I shrugged. “You get stitches.”

  Bronwen blanched. “Barbaric.”

  Cystenian came over to the bed and sat on the edge. He was just as handsome as I remembered, wearing a casual cream shirt that gave me a glimpse of golden chest hair. “Bron, her world’s not like ours. Humans can’t harness their light for healing.”

  “That’s horrible,” Bronwen said.

  I held my arms out, trying not to be overwhelmed by the unusual things I heard. There would be a time for learning about this world later—after I became acquainted with my baby. “Let me see her. You’ve held her long enough.”

  “Trysten. Her name’s Trysten,” Bronwen said.

  “Excuse me?” I glared at Cystenian. “You named her? When? While I was asleep?”

  He cleared his throat and scratched his head. “It’s traditional for the father to name the baby.”

  “And you happened to have a girl’s name picked out?” I hissed. “You didn’t think of consulting me first? You’re unbelievable.” If I thought Cystenian and I were going to magically get along, then I was slammed with a big, fat no.

  “It didn’t occur to me to ask.”

  You have to be kidding. I shook my head. “Just give her to me.” He was lucky I liked the name.

  “I wanted to mention that she’s hungry.” Cystenian lowered her into my arms.

  For a moment, I was lost in how tiny, how precious, how real she was. I had made her. I stroked her soft hair, rubbed her delicate earlobe. She was clean. I brought her to my nose. She smelled sweet, not like baby powder, but like lavender and chamomile. I frowned. They had bathed her. The first bath, and I missed it.

  I touched her cheek, and her mouth turned toward my finger and opened.

  “Look at her little tongue go.” Bronwen was leaning over me, with Cystenian right at her shoulder. They had expectant looks on their faces.

  Did they want me to feed her now, at this exact second? While they were leaning over me?

  This was weird. I didn’t know these people enough to feed my baby around them.

  When I didn’t whip my boobs out, Bronwen said, “Go ahead. You can nurse her.”

  “Uh…” I looked from Cystenian to Bronwen. Did they expect me to drop my top? “Are you just going to huddle over me like that?” They didn’t move. “Uh, I don’t really know what I’m doing. Mom was supposed to help me with this part.”

  “I’ll coach you through it,” Bronwen said.

  Cystenian had moved closer to my side and was blinking down at his daughter.

  “Are you just going to sit there?” I asked.

  Bronwen poked her brother in the shoulder. “She wants privacy.”

  He nodded. “Must be a mortal thing.” Cystenian moved to a window and pretended to gaze outside.

  I scowled at his backside covered in soft suedelike material. He was staying. “I can’t believe this,” I said.

  “Ignore him.” Bronwen situated Trysten in my arms.

  “I don’t feel comfortable nursing with him in the room. I can’t let my breasts just hang out in front of him.”

  “It’s different where you’re from, isn’t it?” Bronwen asked.

  “Yeah. Why don’t you tell me how you do it here? At home, women don’t usually whip their boob out unless they are one of those ‘boob is best’ advocates.”

  Bronwen laughed. “Your language is so amusing. How do you whip a boob out?”

  “She means her breast,” Cystenian said from the window. He didn’t turn around. He acted as if the gardens had captured all his attention.

  “I can’t believe we’re talking about this.” Making sure Cystenian was staring out the window, I pulled the gathered neckline of my gown down, exposing a breast. Throughout my pregnancy, my breasts had swollen into two massive udders. I shuddered, thinking about how much bigger they’d become once my milk came in. “Time for my milking, little Trysten.”

  Bronwen giggled and covered her mouth. I pretended she was a nurse helping me to breastfeed, not an alien who looked perfectly human, except for her flawless complexion.

  Cystenian was still looking out the window, so I relaxed into my pillows as Bronwen helped me maneuver Trysten’s mouth to my nipple. Once the little sprite got the idea, her mouth opened and went to work.

  “Crikey, is it supposed to feel like that?” I asked.

  “Like what?” Bronwen asked.

  “As if she’s going to suck the blasted thing off.”

  Cystenian laughed from his vigil at the window. “Anerah, you’re the most amusing creature ever.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I try to be.”

  Bronwen’s face bubbled, holding back a snicker.

  Certain that Trysten wasn’t going to starve since she was noshing away, I said, “What was your whispered conversation about?”

  Cystenian turned around. His green eyes were wide. “How much of that did you hear?”

  I angled away from him so he couldn’t see me nursing. “Just the last part. You have something to tell me.”

  “Curse your loud mouth, Bronwen.”

  “I’m not a child, Cystenian. I’m the mother of your daughter. Whatever you say will not crush me.”

  Bronwen stood, curled a ringlet around her finger, and looked away awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forgive me, Anerah.”

  Cystenian took her place at the bedside. I pulled the covers up so far that Trysten had nothing but a breathing hole. Cystenian seemed oblivious as he stared right into my eyes.

  His angel curls and his sorrow-filled expression didn’t soften his words as they fell from his mouth. “I’m betrothed.”

  Dang. My face burned and smarted, as if I’d been slapped across the face. “As in, you’re getting married.”

  He touched my arm, right next to Trysten’s head. “The betrothal was planned before I met you. Once my parents learned about the fae’s spell, they pushed the betrothal forward, with some modifications to the ceremony.”

  “You told them about the spell and about what had happened between us?”

  “Naturally. My parents understand. They know that I couldn’t do anything about fae magic.”

  “Why did that make them push the betrothal forward?”

  “Because they knew a child would be born.”

  “They knew?”

  “That’s one of the known outcomes of a fae’s spell. Especially from the flower fae. Anyone with sense avoids them like a plague. They delight in bringing oblivious souls together.”

  “And you knew?” Trysten popped off my breast. I gasped and covered myself. Cystenian made no effort to look away, but he didn’t look down from my face either. When I was too stunned to reattach Trysten, Bronwen shouldered between us and coaxed Trysten’s mouth to the right spot. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I registered my daughter sucking away and how weird all this was, but I was too focused on Cystenian to be embarrassed.

  He was perfectly calm, as if he dealt with fae spells every day, and he was looking intently at my face as though he hadn’t ever se
en something as fascinating as my blue eyes.

  I swallowed my rage and the bile in my throat. I yelled in a whisper, afraid of jarring Trysten and exposing myself. Bronwen had retreated to give Cystenian and me a chance to talk. “You could have told me that I’d end up pregnant! I had to find out by myself a month after we’d had sex!”

  His calm vanished as he recoiled a fraction.

  “What?” I asked. “Is sex a forbidden word? What do you call it? Intercourse, lovemaking, sexual relations?”

  His bright eyes widened.

  “No?” I twitched my head. “Something more archaic? Coitus, copulation, fornication?”

  “I don’t know what half those words mean. We call it bonding physically.”

  “Good grief.” I shut my eyes and breathed in control. Trysten had slowed, so I hoped she was falling asleep and I could cover myself up and get out of bed and get away from this awkwardness. I thought about the bits of conversation that mattered. His parents had known, so they had pushed his betrothal forward. “Why?”

  “Why what?” Cystenian asked.

  “Why did they think they had to push the betrothal forward since I was pregnant?”

  “Anerah.” Cystenian’s voice was full of pity and remorse as he reached for one of my auburn waves.

  I glared at his hand, and he pulled back.

  We were not there yet. As amazing and as attractive as he was, and as amazing and as memorable as our “bonding” had been, we were not on familiar terms.

  “All right,” he began slowly. “They wanted to secure the betrothal for political reasons.”

  “It’s a done deal, then? No getting out of it?” Why had I asked that? Did I expect Cystenian to marry me since he’d fathered our child?

  “We can talk more about this later.”

  “We are talking about it now.” Our union had been by a spell. What happened was out of our control. I could accept that, but while I was buying baby clothes and watching my body balloon up around me, Cystenian had been moving on with his life.

  That hurt.

  A lot.

  “What does your betrothed have to say about Trysten?” Sadly my words were laced with spite.