He didn't sleep much that night.
Not because of danger, or guards, or business, but because of her — and the small movements he felt under his palm for the first time earlier that day.
His child.
Their child.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the echo of that tiny kick against his hand. It made something inside him tighten and loosen all at once — something old, instinctual, inherited from generations of beast-blooded ancestors.
Keep them warm.
Keep them safe.
Provide.
That instinct sat heavy in his chest, almost uncomfortable. He paced the hallway twice before giving up and quietly returning to the bedroom.
She was asleep, curled small, face relaxed, one hand resting on her belly.
She shouldn't be cold.
She shouldn't lack anything.
She shouldn't—
He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he turned, saw the thick blanket folded at the end of the bed, and before he even realized what he was doing, he grabbed it.
Dragged it closer.
Spread it over her gently.
Then he saw another one. A softer one. He took it too, dragging it from the armchair like some ridiculous beast hauling prey.
"What am I… doing?" he muttered under his breath.
It didn't matter.
Instinct moved faster than dignity.
He brought the blanket to her anyway, layering it within reach.
Then a pillow looked too flat.
Another one seemed softer.
He brought that too.
Within minutes he had created a ridiculous soft barricade of pillows, blankets, and comfort items around her side of the bed.
If Mira saw this, she'd never let him live it down.
He set another blanket down, trying to be silent, but it slipped and brushed the floor. He froze, glaring at it as if the fabric could be intimidated into obedience.
A small sleepy voice came from the bed:
"...Are you rearranging the room?"
He stiffened. "No."
She shifted, opening one eye, staring at him in the dim light — then at the mountain of blankets he'd assembled.
"Are you… nesting?" she asked, half-amused, half-confused.
He straightened his spine, offended. "Absolutely not."
She smiled in that quiet way that made his heart stutter. "You dragged all those like a very big cat."
He wanted to deny it again.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing convincing came out.
Instead, he muttered, "You were cold."
"I wasn't," she whispered back.
"You could have been."
She slowly pushed herself up on her elbows. "Liam… it's sweet."
Sweet.
He didn't do sweet.
But for her—apparently he did.
He felt heat crawl up his neck. Ridiculous. He fought beasts twice his size, survived assassins, commanded men with a single look—but one sleepy smile from a pregnant woman turned his heart to molten weakness.
She reached out, fingers brushing the back of his hand.
"You're nesting," she repeated softly, teasing.
He sighed, defeated. "Maybe."
She laughed then, a gentle sound, small and warm. It punched straight through his chest.
He didn't know how to explain the instinct clawing at him from the inside. How every time she moved, he listened. How every shift of her breathing made him alert. How the tiniest thought of her or the child being cold made his pulse tighten.
Instead, he said the only thing that felt true:
"I just want you both comfortable."
Her eyes softened. "We are."
He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "Good."
Then, quieter: "But I still think you need one more blanket."
She threw a pillow at him.
He caught it easily—and placed it next to her, because of course he did.
She laughed again and lay back down.
And he settled beside her, finally easing the restless instinct in his chest — because she was warm, she was safe, and she was here.
...
He didn't mean to sprawl.
Truly, he didn't.
But the moment he saw her on the other side of the living room — curled up in the armchair with a blanket, reading with one hand on her belly — something deep inside him simply switched off.
The instinct that normally kept him alert, sharp, always ready to fight… melted the second he knew she was safe, warm, and close.
So, without thinking, he threw himself onto the long velvet sofa.
Not sat.
Not rested.
Sprawled.
Like some oversized jungle cat claiming territory.
Half his body took up the couch. One leg hung off the edge. His head dropped backwards dramatically, a low groan leaving him as if he'd worked in the mines for fourteen hours instead of simply existing as an overprotective mate.
He heard her soft laugh.
"You look comfortable," she said gently.
He cracked one eye open.
"I am observing," he declared.
"From that position?" she asked, raising a brow.
He shifted only slightly — a lazy stretch, his arms spreading wide across the back of the sofa, chest expanding like a beast waking from a nap. "I can see the entire room from here."
"You can see the ceiling," she corrected.
"The ceiling is important."
She giggled. He felt it — that warmth in his chest spreading like liquid fire.
He watched her through his half-lidded gaze. She turned her page slowly, the soft light glowing over her hair. She looked peaceful. Safe. Unaware of how dangerous other people could be. Unaware of how much he would destroy for her without hesitation.
So yes, he sprawled. And he watched.
Lazy, yes — but alert underneath. A predator pretending to nap.
She shifted in her seat, touching her belly as the baby moved. His muscles reacted before he did. His head snapped up, spine straightening, senses sharpening instantly.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice suddenly serious.
"Yes," she smiled softly, "the baby just moved."
He relaxed again — dramatically — and flopped back onto the cushions.
"Good," he said, hand covering half his face as he sank into comfort again.
She smiled at him like she knew exactly what he was doing.
After a moment, she stood and crossed the room to him. He felt her presence before she even touched him, her soft scent mixing with the room's warmth.
She placed her hand on his arm.
His entire body stilled.
Her thumb brushed his skin.
A soft rumble — primal, low — vibrated in his chest before he could stop it. Not a full purr, but close enough that embarrassment crept up his neck.
She noticed. Of course she noticed.
"Are you… purring?" she teased quietly, eyes bright.
"No," he lied immediately. "That was breathing."
She laughed, gentle and warm. "Your breathing vibrates?"
"Yes," he said with fake dignity.
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "You're cute when you're like this."
He stiffened.
Then melted.
Without opening his eyes, he caught her wrist and pressed her palm lightly against his cheek.
"Stay with me," he murmured, softer than he meant to.
She settled next to him, letting him pull her close, careful of her belly. He curled around her instinctively, one arm under her shoulders, one hand resting safely over her stomach.
Not a sprawl anymore.
A shield.
A claim.
A promise.
He closed his eyes fully now, knowing she was here.
She whispered, "You really do act like a cat."
He smirked against her temple. "And you… chose a panther. So blame yourself."
And as she relaxed into him, his chest vibrated again — a low, contented purr he could no longer hide.