The joy of fatherhood

*Zac*
With some reluctance, I leave the bed. I awoke to discover that Callie had fallen asleep. I am tempted to stay until she awakes, just to have another rousing session of lovemaking, but if my brother is entrusting the care of this estate to me, then I intend to be responsible, and that means finding out exactly what I need to do.

Returning to my bedchamber, I prepare myself for the day. This notion of two bedchambers strikes me as silly. I have no intention of ever sleeping in a bed without my wife in it.

The thought brings me up short and I sink into the nearest chair. It isn’t only that I don’t plan to sleep here alone. I have no desire to visit another bed. I want no other woman. I want only Callie.

Surely, this is a temporary condition. I have always been adept at juggling women, never giving only one my attention. I always made each woman feel as though she was the only one, but in truth, another was always waiting for me. I never yearned for one woman exclusively.

But at this precise moment I can’t envision going to another's bed after leaving Callie. All I want, with an almost ridiculous desperation, is to return to her.

It is the novelty of her. The newness. It has to be.

But that’s never mattered before.

It is the shackles of marriage vows, spoken before my family, vowed before the Gods.

Only it doesn't feel like manacles and chains.

Maybe it is because I am not quite up to snuff, I am still healing.

Only I feel stronger, more myself than I have in months.

The thought that I can’t see myself slipping into bed with another woman, because Callie matters so much more than any other, scares the devil out of me. It’s not possible. I care for all women equally. Even if I enjoy one woman more than another, my feelings for her are no deeper, no shallower, no different.

But Callie is different.

She is courageous and strong and so incredibly compassionate. She brings sunshine into the room. She sacrificed her good name, mothered my child. She is a wicked wanton in bed.

I smile at the memory of her seduction this morning, as though I needed any sort of enticement to once again possess her. Every fragrance, every touch, every moan and sigh, every undulating movement of her lithe body is indelibly branded in my mind.

My hands ball into tightened fists on my thighs. I had it all once before, and I lost it, lost so much more than I have ever realized. I lost her.

I cannot, will not, let that happen again, even as I realize that it is beyond my control.

“You're going in circles, old boy," I whisper to myself. “There is no reason you will ever lose any of this."

But my words bring me no comfort.

A distant sound disturbs my disquieting ruminations. I tilt my head to better hear it. Is that crying? Yes, Zane. No doubt with an empty stomach. We had to make several stops on the journey here. The boy has one hell of an appetite. He takes after his father in that regard.

So why is he still crying? Where is the damned nurse?

I shove myself to my feet, stalk to the door, fling it open, and step into the hallway. No servants are about and the wail is rising in crescendo. I storm into the nursery, cross over to the crib, and glare into it. “You're Dragan blood. A Dragan does not cry.”

Zane immediately stops his caterwauling. With water-filled deep hazel eyes, he blinks up unhappily at me. His puckered mouth trembles. A little bubble burst from one nostril.

“Disgusting,” I mutter as I take my handkerchief and clean the boy's face. “There. Better. I'm sure your nurse will be here soon with what you require. You're going to discover that you will spend a good deal of your life waiting for women, so you might as well get accustomed to it early. You wait patiently like a gentleman.”

Zane's mouth quivers and he begins taking in quick breaths. Distressed, obviously. Damnation, where is the blasted nurse?

I lean in. “I have got no breasts, lad. I can't help you."

The lips quiver faster. The boy pleats his brow into what looks to be quite painful. A new tear leaks out from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, very well, if you insist." Reaching in, I lift the boy into my arms. Zane's brow relaxes. His mouth spreads into a contented smile. Ah, yes, he is quite the charmer. He is heavier than he had been before. His limbs are longer. He seems so much stronger. “You’re growing rather fast, aren't you, you little bugger? You look like me, you know. Have they told you that?”

The dark eyes blink slowly. The urchin makes a mewling sound that is obviously supposed to be some sort of answer.

“No? Want to see how handsome you’ll be when you grow up? You'll have all the ladies begging for a bit of your time,” I tell him as I walk to a mirror in the portion of the room designated for the nurse. I hold Zane up so our faces are side by side: one chubby and round with huge hazel eyes, the other a sharp contrast of defining edges.

“There. What do you think?” I ask.

The baby seems remarkably unimpressed. I wonder if perhaps children’s eyesight is limited until they get older. I move in closer and suddenly Zane erupts with peals of laughter that shakes his tiny body.

“What the deuce?” I stepp back and the merry cackle abruptly subsides. “You can laugh. For some reason, I had not expected that. What did you think was so funny? Certainly not me.”

I lean toward the reflection and the boy chortles again. I can’t help myself. I laugh right alongside my son.

When I retreat, silence again sweeps in. I sway toward the mirror… a series of guffaws that once again has me joining in. Stepping back, I toss my son up and peals of delight echoes around me. I have never given much notice to children, but damned if they can’t be jolly good fun.

Or at least my son is.

I turn back toward the mirror and that is when I see we have an audience. Callie is captured in the reflection, her smile so bright as to compete with the sun.

I spin around. “Did you hear him?”

Laughing lightly, she nods. “I did indeed.”

“My son is going to be quite the ladies' man, I have no doubt." I say proudly.

With a small gasp, she presses her hand to her lips as tears fill her eyes.

Holding the child close, I step toward her. “Callie, what the devil is wrong?”

“You've never called him that before. Your son." Lifting up on her toes, she presses a hard kiss to my cheek as she wraps her arms around us both. “It makes it all worth it. Every moment of doubt and despair. "

I wind my arm around her and pull her in even closer. Bending my head, I whisper, “Thank you, Callie. Thank you for the gift of my son."

She weeps even harder, and Zane, not to be outdone, joins in. When Jeanette finally arrives with effusive apologies for slipping away for a solitary morning cup of tea, I am more than relieved to turn Zane over to her and carry Callie back to bed, where I can thank her properly.