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“Greetings, sire.” The male bowed very low, and as he rose, his kind stare went to the tiny bundle. “ ’Tis getting warmer anon, however.”

“Indeed.” Darius unfolded the top of the swaddling blanket and looked once more upon the tiny face. Those eyes, those arresting iron gray eyes, stared back at him. “Do you care to . . . inspect her first?”

His voice broke, for he wanted no judgment upon the young, now or ever—and indeed he had done his best to ensure that. Verily, he had not shared the circumstances of her conception with the male. How could he? Who would then take her? And as she lacked the conspicuous traits of her other half, no one would ever know.

“I shall need no inspection.” The gentlemale shook his head. “She is a blessing to fill my shellan’s empty arms. You have said she is healthy; that is all that we care about.”

Darius exhaled a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding and continued to stare down upon the babe.

“Are you sure you wish to give her up?” the gentlemale said softly.

Darius glanced back at Tohrment. The male’s eyes burned as he looked over from upon his mincing stallion, his warrior’s body clad in black leather hides, his weapons strapped upon his chest and saddle, his appearance a harbinger of war and death and blood spilled.

Darius was aware he presented a similar picture as he turned back to the gentlemale and cleared his throat. “Would you permit me one license?”

“Yes, sire. Please take any you shall require.”

“I . . . I should wish to impart her nomenclature.”

The gentlemale bowed low once again. “That would be a most kind and welcome gesture.”

Darius looked over the shoulder of the civilian to the cottage door that had been closed against the chill. Inside, somewhere, there was a female in mourning, one who had lost her young upon the birthing bed.

For truth, he knew something of that dark void’s vast shadow as he prepared to give what was in his arms to another. He would ever be missing a part of his heart when he rode off from this wooded glen and this broken family who would now be made whole—but the young deserved the love that awaited her herein.

Darius’s voice rang out, pronouncing, “She shall be called Xhexania.”

The gentlemale bowed anew. “ ‘Blessed one.’ Yes, that suits her beautifully.”

There was a long pause during which Darius resumed his regard of that angelic face. He knew not when he would see her again. This family was her own now; she needed not two warriors o’erseeing her—and better that they not intrude. Two fighters visiting this quiet locale regularly? Questions might well be raised as to why and perhaps endanger the secret that had to surround her conception and birth.

To protect her, he must disappear from her life to ensure she was raised as a normal.

“Sire?” the gentlemale asked meekly. “Are you sure you wish to do this?”

“I’m sorry. But of course . . . I am very sure.” Darius felt his chest burn as he leaned forward and placed the young in the arms of a stranger.

Her father.

“Thank you . . .” The male’s voice cracked as he accepted the small weight. “Thank you for the light you have presented us in our darkness. Verily, though, is there naught we may do for you?”

“Be . . . be good to her.”

“We shall.” The male went to turn away and paused. “You are never coming back, are you.”

As he shook his head, Darius could not take his eyes off the swaddling cloth the young’s mother had made. “She is yours sure as if your bloodline had borne her. We shall leave her here in your fine care and trust you shall treat her well.”

The gentlemale came forward and took Darius’s upper arm. With a squeeze, he offered commiseration and reassurance. “You have put your faith in us wisely. And know that you are always welcome here to see her.”

Darius inclined his head. “Thank you. May the blessed Virgin Scribe look with favor upon you and yours.”

“And the same for you.”

With that, the gentlemale walked through his door and entered his mated home. On a final lifted palm by way of good-bye, he shut himself in with the wee one.

As the stallions