“Merci,” he whispered. “But don’t stop.”

“King, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

His back moved with his long deep breath. Nora reached under his neck and unbuttoned his shirt to the center of his chest. He didn’t try to stop her as she pushed it down his arms to bare his shoulders and back. She massaged his arms, his shoulder blades, ran her fingernails up and down his spine the way she knew relaxed him best. It was easy to be with him like this. They had been passionate lovers long ago. And they’d hated each other, long ago. Both passions had burned themselves out. Only the softer feelings survived the flames—affection, friendship, tenderness.

“I slept in a chair last night. Everything hurts,” he said.

“There are six bedrooms in this house. Why would you sleep in a chair?”

“There’s only one bed in the master bedroom. Juliette was sleeping in it.”

“That bed is huge. There’s room for her, the baby, and you and half the National Guard.”

He shook his head. “I had a nightmare last night. I woke up tangled in the covers. Woke Juliette up, too.”

“Ah…” She stroked his hair gently. “Are they back? The bad dreams?”

“For a month now, they’ve been back.”

“What do you dream?”

“They’re awful.”

“I can handle awful.”

Kingsley shuddered. “I dream Céleste is lost in the house, and I can hear her crying for me but…no matter where I look, I can’t find her. I dream men with guns come for Juliette and take her from me while she screams my name. I dream someone is trying to shoot at Nico, and I see you running to stop the bullet. Sometimes you take it. Sometimes it hits Nico and I see him fall…and you hold him while he bleeds.”

Nico. King’s son. Nora’s other lover.

Her hands went to her heart. “Oh, God, Kingsley.”

“Last night was the worst one yet.”

“What happened?”

Kingsley didn’t answer at first. Nora braced herself and when Kingsley finally did speak, it was in a whisper, as if he were afraid to hear his own words.

“Juliette lost the baby.”

Nora blinked tears from her eyes. She dipped her head and kissed the back of his neck.

“Just bad dreams,” she said. “You’re about to have your third child. It’s a lot to handle. Of course you’re having anxiety dreams. That’s all it is.”

He looked up at her. His eyes were bright, almost feverish. Something in his eyes scared her. Something in his eyes she didn’t want to see.

“You know your past. I know mine. Do we have any right to be as happy as we are?”

“I don’t know if we have a right,” she said. “I don’t know if anyone has a right to be as happy as we are.”

“You never worry it’ll catch up with us?”

“What?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

“Our sins? Søren’s finally caught up with him. We’re next, aren’t we?”

She wanted to laugh, to laugh away his fears. This was irrational. Superstitious nonsense. She knew it. And yet, his words chilled her.