ARYA

The wind carried the scent of rain and pine as I stood at the edge of the lake, one hand cupping the curve of my swollen belly, the other tracing the silver chain at my neck, the one that held Daxton's ring.

I could still recall when we'd lain here for hours, his head in my lap, his breath soft and even, while I memorized the way moonlight painted him in gold.

I'd never told him I hadn't slept that night.

I couldn't. Not when he looked so peaceful. ...