The night was supposed to be quiet, the kind of soft, uninterrupted calm that the world rarely allowed them anymore.
Snow pressed thickly against the terrace windows, sealing out the city lights until the entire estate seemed suspended somewhere between dream and silence. The fire had burned low, painting the ceiling in slow, amber waves, and Lucas, half-buried beneath blankets and wrapped in one of Trevor's sweaters, had been close to drifting off when the first kick landed.
He startled, breath catching in his throat, then blinked toward the ceiling in mild disbelief. "You've got to be joking," he muttered, one hand instinctively going to his abdomen. The reply came in the form of another, sharper movement, decisive and perfectly timed to make him wince. "Oh, wonderful. Apparently we're awake now."
