His son

*Zac*
I wipe my hand across my suddenly dry mouth. Where is the bloody servant with the damned tea? I dart a quick glance toward the door.

“Searching for an escape or a rescuer?” She asks, and I hear the amusement in her voice. I glare at her, but she just says. “How can you be afraid of a child?”

“I’m not afraid of him”. I say, with an annoyance that misrepresented my claim. “I simply have no interest in children. Whatsoever. At all.”

This time my words hurt her. I see it in the darkening of her eyes, the unnatural blush in her cheeks. She has given up so much … everything to bring that child into the world and to keep him near. I just acted as though I couldn’t be bothered.

Her gaze averts me as she rises. “He’s getting hungry. I should find Jeanette.”

As she tries to walk past me, I wrap my fingers around her arm. “Don’t leave.”

She doesn’t look at me. It is astounding how much that small act hurts.

“You don’t want him." Her voice is thick with tears. “If you will please arrange for a car, I shall pack our things and we shall be gone from here.”

“Your father will not welcome you back unmarried.” I point out.

Angling her chin, she meets my gaze and I see determination that puts me to shame. “I'm well aware of that. I’ll be off to the capitol. I’m certain to find employment as a nurse. I can make my way. It is never my intent to bother you. I thought you
were dead. I thought your family … that they would appreciate knowing you had a son, that a small part of you lived on. But Zane is too innocent, too precious to be made to feel unwanted. I will not accept it. Not from you. Not from anyone."

For her sake and the boy's, I should pry my fingers from her arm and let them leave. What do I truly have to offer her? I am no good to the army. Acceptable positions for second born dragons are limited to the military and the clergy. What sort of
success could a non religious man hope to find in a temple?

I should release her. Instead, my fingers close ever so slightly, staking a claim. “You're right. He terrifies me. I know nothing at all about children. The responsibility … I don’t know how you manage it. But I would very much like to be introduced to him again."

Her smile comes with hesitation, her eyes wary. Still, she nods. “With your bad leg it would be best if you sat. Shall we move to the sofa? ”

“Yes, of course.” I have managed to sound interested, when in truth I see it as a chore. I want more time with her, want to experience her. But I can not have her without the child. I can’t understand my sudden obsession with her, why I am willing to do anything to keep her near. But I want her, want her to cross the hallway to my
bedchamber. I want to gaze down into whiskey eyes. I want to see them across a room. Obviously, I have lost more than memories. I have lost my mind.

Limping, I allow her to precede me.

The settee, with its bright yellow brocade, is small, with room enough for only two. And the child. I can’t forget the child. She wouldn’t let me.

She holds the baby toward me, not for me to take, but as a means to display him. “This is Zane. Your son."

Her soft voice holds conviction, no doubt. And more love than I thought it was possible for one person to possess. Her expression is earnest, her eyes pleading with me to recognize the miracle she holds in her arms. I want only her. To be here with only her. But the child would intrude. Soon, I am fairly certain the baby will start to cry. And she will leave.

I do not want her to leave upset. Not after all she has done for me … and for my son.

Lowering my gaze, I look, truly look, at my son for the first time. He has chubby cheeks that puckers as he sucks on his fist. I had no chin to speak of. His nose is more a dollop, with no real indication of the shape it might one day take as he grows into manhood. His eyebrows, the same color as his curls, almost touch where his brow puckers in concentration. His long, dark lashes dominate his face. A single large freckle sits below his left ear, just like on myself. A bit of inherited rebelliousness, I supposed. But then most of me had rebelled. I had taken very little from my father.

This boy, however, has taken almost everything from his … from me.

As though acutely aware that he is being watched, he suddenly opens his eyes, and I find myself staring into hazel depts. Intelligence lurks there and inquisitiveness. Who will explain to my boy the joys and more important, the pitfalls of women?

“I wish he had your eyes” I hear myself say.

“Sometimes a baby's eyes change over time, but I suspect his color is here to stay. They are too much like yours. You can touch him, you know. He doesn't bite.”

“His father does.” I mumble.

Calliope turns scarlet, and I wonder if I had nipped at her shoulder, her ear, her backside. Had I nibbled? Had she done the same to me? What had it been like with her? I can’t imagine that it had been anything other than wondrous.

So why only one night?

The question hangs desperately on my tongue.

Cautiously she wraps her hand around mine, threading our fingers together. Doubt clouds her eyes. She brings my hand to her lips, kissing each finger. “Trust me?” She whispers.

With my life.

But I hold back the words. They are too powerful, too soon. In her world, we have known each other for a good deal longer than we have in mine. I should tell her, I should bare my shortcomings, my failures, my aflliction.

But all the should escapes my mind as she nudges our intertwined fingers against the boy’s hand. Four tiny fingers and one small thumb wraps themselves securely and tightly around my forefinger. I feel a hard, painful tug in my chest, and I think perhaps my heart has stopped. But it beats, rapid and strong, my blood pulsing through me.

My blood pulsing through Zane. Zane. Zane. my son.

“He's damned strong,” I say, barely recognizing the strangled sound as coming from me.

“He's amazing, isn’t he?” She says with such pride.

“Was it a hard birth?” I ask before thinking.

She lowers her eyes from mine to Zane’s. “It was worth it."

“Were you alone?” I ask.

“No, a friend, another nurse was with me." She says.

“Were you afraid?” I my next question.

She lifts her gaze back to mine, and I see the wonder of the child in her smile. “No.”

So much is said with that one word, her expression. She had wanted my child. Has she not proven that with her actions? She deserves so much more from me than I have given.

“I would like to hold him now," I say quietly.

Exquisite joy lits her face. Once again, I realize I have been wrong. It wasn’t her eyes or smile that had drawn me. It is something more, something deep, that on rare occasions rises to the surface. Her inner beauty is breathtaking and I believe that I would have done anything to ensure that I saw it often.

She transfers the child to my waiting arms. Not once does Zane release his firm grip on my finger. My throat knots up and I force out the words. “Hello, Zane. You and l are going to have quite the time of it, aren't we?”

The boy blinks up at me, a question in his hazel eyes, a shade that mirrors mine. Who the devil are you?

I’m your father.