By the time I looked up, Damian was already gone and I immediately went after him. I found him sprawled on the bed, sleeping. I didn’t have the heart to wake him, but this was a conversation we needed to have. I had to address his statement and also tell him about our baby. I couldn’t wait to take Kourtney’s name out of his mouth and replace it with mine again. I was his wife—he should only be calling my name. As I stood there, watching him sleep, memories tugged at me. I had first seen him like this—vulnerable, broken—years ago, when he was brought back from battle, his leg torn and his breathing shallow. Everyone thought he wouldn’t survive. It was me who stayed by his side for nights, pouring every ounce of healing into him until his fever finally broke. I never told him, but from that moment, I belonged to him. When he opened his eyes back then, the gratitude in his gaze had seared me to my very soul. His parents arranged our marriage soon after, and though it was sudden, I had a
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