The palace was still dark when the knock came, soft and apologetic but persistent in a way that implied terror had trumped etiquette. Gabriel didn't stir at first. He was warm. Pinned under layers of velvet sheets, Damian's thigh, and the kind of exhaustion that came with being bonded, politically irreplaceable, and sleep-deprived thanks to an infant who seemed to believe 4 a.m. was prime rebellion hour.
The knock came again.
Louder this time. Followed by a baby's wail, shrill, furious, and insulted.
Gabriel exhaled into the pillow. "No."
The door creaked open a little.
A voice floated in, tentative. "Your Majesties?"
Damian's voice, smooth and laced with sleep, emerged from somewhere behind Gabriel's shoulder. "You're either here to announce the palace is burning, or you're in the wrong room."
"I-I apologize, Your Majesty. But the young prince… he… he refuses to stop crying. Or eat. Or be held. He… he seems quite agitated."
