[Rynthall Estate—The Library of Literary Terror, Late Morning]
The library had never seen this much fear.
Books trembled on their shelves. Dust motes dared not float too loud. Even the fireplace crackled in careful, measured intervals, as if it didn't want to interrupt whatever ancient power had just swept in.
That ancient power?
Lucien Rynthall.
Six months pregnant. Glowing like scandal wrapped in silk. Waddling like a dramatic thundercloud. One arm was clutching his belly.
The other?
Swinging dramatically as he strode into the library like a man entering war.
Behind him came three maids in single file, each carrying a pillow.
The first: a memory foam cushion in royal blue.
The second: a hand-embroidered velvet monstrosity covered in pearls and passive-aggressive embroidery that read "Reading Is Resistance."
The third: a pregnancy support wedge. Also velvet. Because of course it was.
