I lie on the futon, my body aching, the weight of the child pressing down on my bones. My breath comes in shallow gasps as I try to find a position that doesn't send pain spiraling through my spine.

The silence stretches—unbroken save for the soft rustle of my own movements.

Then a shift in the air.

I feel his presence before I see him—a pressure, a weight of cursed energy that fills the room, making the shadows deepen.

My cheek presses against the scorching heat of his bare chest. His skin is warm, almost feverish, and the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat is steady beneath my ear.

I open my mouth to speak—to protest, to question—