His knees were spread wide so he could make use of the laptop sitting on the coffee table. He was scrutinizing a number of geographic survey maps of Second Earth. He needed to understand some basic things about the planet: how many plains there were where massive armies could gather, the elevations of these areas, which hemisphere they were in—and therefore the corresponding seasonal weather—the wildlife. All the elements to consider in planning a war.

So it had come to this. He shook his head and the towel on his head swayed. All-out war would come soon, and it was his job to get the allied forces battle-ready.

He’d already sent out a summons to hundreds of Militia Warrior Section Leaders from all over the world. Seriffe would fold them directly to Endelle’s palace, where they’d be secure. Tomorrow he would begin forming his command organization, all those departments that would establish lines of communication, provide weaponry and ordnance, place orders for uniforms, create medical units, and of course maintain a food supply.

Every army needed a well-stocked supply train. Always had. Always would.

He only realized, however, that Marguerite had been gone an unusually long time when he heard her footsteps down the hall, her bare feet padding along the hardwood floor. He reopened his connection to her and felt the cool of the wood beneath her feet and the damp of her hair against her face.

She seemed to be moving strangely slowly.

He pulled the damp towel off his head and dropped it to the floor beside his feet. He turned in her direction, focusing all of his attention on her. She’d just recently returned from Prague and a demoralizing response to her well-prepared speech before an indifferent committee, so he knew she was a little down.

But as soon as he saw her face, he realized something else was wrong. Her eyes even looked red-rimmed. Nor did she meet his gaze.

“You’ve been crying?”

Marguerite never cried.

She shifted her unfocused gaze toward him then stopped in her tracks. “I’m pregnant.”

Thorne stared into beautiful brown eyes and his life seemed to just stop. His heart paused. His mind grew very, very still as though time had a new meaning all its own, something only he could see. A vision slid through his mind, of a boy and a girl, same age. Yes, twins. Both with brown hair like Marguerite’s, but with his hazel eyes. They were young, maybe two, walking in a field, tugging on flowers. Both had wings. He’d filled his woman with twins, wing-bearing twins.

A third child flew past them, laughing. She had long black hair and bigger wings. She was a little older.

Helena.

He blinked and time resumed.

“So you’re sure about this?”

She nodded, moving to stand next to him.

“Well, I’d say I’m sorry but I always wanted a family. Guess you’re not getting away from me now.”

At that she stilled and looked down at him. Her body relaxed as she frowned. “Is that what you think? That I still want to leave you, want to live my life of freedom, that I have regrets?”

It wasn’t exactly what he meant but maybe it had been the right thing to say, to bring forward. “Do you have regrets?”

And suddenly he wished he hadn’t asked because his heart started pounding. He wanted her to be happy more than anything else in the world. He’d always thought that she deserved a thousand years of unbridled lust-driven activity for the hundred years she’d been incarcerated in the Convent. But the thought of her doing that was about as pleasant to his soul as a slap on a sunburn. Yet what if she still needed to leave?

She rolled her eyes. “You are such an idiot to even ask me that. Haven’t I said enough, done enough to prove that I want to be here? I haven’t resigned myself to this life, Thorne, if that’s what you think. I’ve given myself, one hundred percent.”

At that he smiled, stretched out on the couch, and pulled her down on top of him. “Just checking. I want you to be happy.”

“I can’t believe I’m pregnant.”

His body responded to that truth, a wonderful electric vibration that passed through every muscle and landed in his groin. He’d already been half firm with her body pressed against his, but now he toughened up, got really warrior-strong as he said, “Yeah. You are.” His voice carried resonance, which brought a gasp from her throat.

“I love your voice, like a flow of water over coarse gravel. And the resonance. Do it again.”

So here was one important truth about Marguerite: As a sexual being she matched him perfectly. She had from the first. He’d never really known a woman like her, so game, so ready, so earthy when it came to lovemaking. He thought it a great irony that her parents had tried to beat the sin out of her, which had instead given her a ripeness for life that made her just right for him.

He slid his arms around her and pulled her up higher on his chest, dragging her body over his erection. So good. When her legs were tight around his cock, he pressed his mouth against her ear and with three resonances whispered, “I’m going to fuck you again.”

Her whole body shivered and she so kindly rubbed her legs up and down his cock. She was too short for him to enter her in this position and still keep his mouth against her ear, but over the decades they’d made a lot of things work.

She lifted her left knee up and he smoothed his hand down the back of her thigh. He entered her with two fingers. She was so wet, always wet for him, and now she carried his babies inside her.

Life got no better than this.

Do it again, she sent.

He didn’t exactly know the why of it, but his resonance always worked her up like nothing else, and it never seemed to hurt her.

So he said, “I can feel the pleasure my fingers are giving you.” He moved them faster and her body started gyrating over his. She was panting into his shoulder, her ear pressed to his mouth.

He split his resonance a few more times and just groaned into her ear. She cried out but sent, You can make me come faster than any man I’ve ever known.

“Wrong words, Marguerite. Never talk about other men to me. Ever.” He was pissed, but he felt her smile and then he understood. Dammit, she’d said that to him on purpose.

He withdrew his fingers and flipped her over in a smooth arc that brought her onto the couch beneath him but on her stomach, one of his favorite positions.

He lifted her up so that he was poised behind her hips. “You’re being very bad and I’m going to have to punish you.”

She turned and looked back at him. “What are you going to do to me?”

He let her feel the tip of his cock at her opening, then he spelled it out for her. When her legs started trembling, he shoved himself in deep.

She balanced her hands on the arm of the couch and spread her legs wide. He set up a rhythm; then he leaned down and she stretched out her neck for him, ready to take her punishment.

He bit her hard, which brought her internal muscles wrapping tight around him and spasming. She cried out over and over as the orgasm rocked her. He released chemicals at the same time that, because of his new ability to feel her, caused shivers to race up and down his spine the way they were racing up and down hers.

His orgasm followed as he pumped into her, a streak of profound pleasure because she climaxed again and he could feel at the same time what his hard cock was doing to her. The combined sensation was like fire. He released her neck and roared as the orgasm rolled and rolled, on and on, until he’d spilled himself inside her and at last her hips grew quiet.

He collapsed to his side, taking her with him, keeping himself connected. He was breathing hard, trying to figure out which sensations were his and which were hers. Her lungs gulped for air; his cock twitched. His legs were sweaty against the leather; so were hers. Her nose itched. The muscles of his shoulders flexed.

He held her close, loving this, loving sex with his woman, loving that she was game, that she was here, that she belonged to him, that love had found them both. He hugged her and she caught his arms and held them, pressing them against her chest. He felt her breasts flex from the inside and he smiled.

“I love you,” he said.

“You work me up.”

He laughed. “Ditto, sweetheart.”

She sighed. “How the hell am I supposed to be a mother?”

“You’ll be fine. The woman who brought me back from the dead, twice, will do just fine with anyone and anything. Two babies? Piece of cake.”

He felt her stiffen. “What do you mean, two babies?”

Thorne could have kicked himself for not being more diplomatic. He’d have to work on that.

But after a few more seconds, he felt her relax and something more, a vibration that clicked with his own obsiddy power. He could feel her power moving within her body, deep within her mind. He could sense that she was having a vision.

She turned slowly in his arms so that she was now face to face with him and her eyes were lit up. “I saw them, both of them.”

He nodded. “With baby Helena?”

Marguerite smiled. “They were walking hand in hand. You saw them, too?”

“Helena flew above them.”

“Yes.” She put her hand on his face, then kissed him. “More than anything that’s happened in the past few weeks, that image gives me hope, Thorne. Real hope. Our kids had to be at least two, maybe three, don’t you think? And they had wings.”

“Yes. Wings.”

“Do you think the war will be over by then?”

He drew in a deep breath. “I hope so, sweetheart, but if it isn’t, we’ll figure it out.”

She dipped her chin and snuggled close so that her head was buried against his neck. Together, we’ll figure it out, she sent.

“Yes, together.”

Together. The sweetest word he’d heard in a long, long time.