"I can feed myself, you know."
"No. You'll sprain a wrist," Zayden said, completely serious, as he scooped another spoonful of oatmeal and raised it to her lips like she was some porcelain doll wrapped in gold.
Elena stared at him. "It's oatmeal, not molten lava."
"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "My babies need full nutrients, no stress, no effort, and definitely no burned toast from you trying to sneak into the kitchen again."
"I walked. Not climbed a mountain."
"That's still illegal," Zayden replied, as if she'd broken some international law. "You're supposed to be in bed. Doctor's orders. And mine."
He gently pressed the spoon against her lips. She sighed but gave in, letting him feed her like a pampered princess.
Zayden sat beside her, legs folded, a tray balanced expertly on one knee, holding fruit, yogurt, and three perfectly peeled boiled eggs—cut into neat halves.
"I know what you're doing," she said after swallowing.
"Feeding my wife?"
"You're distracting yourself. You've memorized three pregnancy books in the past two days. You've called the doctor twice this morning. And now you're over here peeling grapes like I'm Cleopatra."
Zayden raised an eyebrow. "Don't give me ideas. I can order Egyptian cotton sheets in five minutes."
"Zay…"
He looked at her, softening.
"Elena," he whispered, brushing her hair back gently, "I know I'm being too much. I know. But these next few weeks… they scare me. Anything can go wrong. And I can't—" He paused, throat tight. "I won't risk you or them. So if that means feeding you with my own hands every morning, then so be it."
She blinked back tears.
"You already do everything."
"Not everything," he said quietly, placing his hand over her bump. "But I will."
Every day had turned into a routine of his own making:
Breakfast in bed—with vitamins sorted by color and timing.
Foot massages after lunch, "to help circulation," he insisted.
Heart monitor app syncing—because Zayden now tracked her pulse alongside his own.
And strict nap times, enforced with kisses and blankets and guilt.
When she tried to sit up for dinner that evening, he walked in with a silver tray and a pointed look.
"Nope. Back down, queen," he ordered. "You're not lifting a fork tonight."
Elena smiled. "That's your new nickname for me now? Queen?"
"Until further notice. Or until the babies are born. Then I'll crown them too."
He sat beside her and fed her piece by piece, brushing his fingers against her cheek every time she smiled.
"I should be annoyed by this."
"But you're not," he smirked.
She wasn't.
Because when Zayden Wolfe loved, he did it with fire and fury—and wrapped you in silk while doing it.
And right now, Elena was wrapped in more than blankets and warm meals. She was wrapped in his protection. In his unshakable fear and deep, all-consuming love.
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