Sloane Beaumont had known and persevered through many hardships: the death of his parents, losing his job as a detective, and the struggle of establishing his own private investigation business.
Oh, and saving the world from ancient murderous eldritch gods who wanted to awaken their even more murderous father and destroy all of humanity, of course.
He was a fighter, a warrior, a Starkiller amongst mortals.
It was hard to believe he was being beaten by morning sickness.
Then again, it was crazy enough dealing with the fact he even had it to begin with, since men usually couldn’t get pregnant. Most men, however, weren’t married to a very well-meaning but ultimately irresponsible god.
“You are the most beautiful creature in all of the universe,” Loch was soothing. “Even when you are depositing your stomach contents into the porcelain bowl, you are stunning, my sweet mate.”
“Oh, by the gods.” Sloane groaned and rested his head against the toilet seat. “That’s very nice. And very gross. Thank you.”
“Here, my love.” Loch presented him with a slitted tentacle, the tip ghosting over Sloane’s lips.
“Thanks.” Sloane lightly sucked on the tentacle, closing his eyes as a rush of sweet liquid flooded his mouth. It was the divine nectar of a god, easing his nausea and the cramps in his stomach immediately.
It was also technically Loch’s come.
Though it was sort of weird to drink it so casually, it had incredible healing properties, and Sloane could use all the help he could get right now.
Carrying the child of an ancient god was turning out to be a real pain in the ass.
“I don’t understand,” Sloane grumbled as he got up to wash his face. “The first three months were great. Solved some cases, went apartment hunting, got the one with the extra bedroom I liked, got everything packed and moved, no problems. Not a one! Awesome. I didn’t get sick, I felt wonderful, I was happy. And now….” He threw up his hands. “This!”
“I’m sorry, my sweet Starkiller.” Loch frowned. “Gods don’t usually spawn with mortals. I’m not sure exactly what we should expect with this pregnancy.”
“What happens with the gods?” Sloane dried off with a towel. “There’s not much written about the actual spawning. Just that, you know, some of you choose to do it by yourselves whenever you want.”
“It can vary. Many gods mate and one will carry a spawn for nine months exactly as mortals do. The triplets, Eb, Ebb, and Ebbeth, on the other hand, were spawned directly from Baub’s breast with a mere thought. My half-sister, Chandraleth? Salgumel carried her for a hundred years before giving birth.”
Sloane paled. “I might be pregnant for a hundred years?”
“No!” Loch paused. “Probably not. It’s unlikely. You could always lay an egg instead of giving live birth. I think one of my uncles did that.”
Groaning, Sloane dragged himself into their bedroom. “By all the gods, I’ll be in a nursing home by the time I’m having our egg baby!”
Loch was right behind him and gently swept him up in a tentacle-filled embrace.
The touch of Loch’s true flesh was always wonderful and flooded Sloane’s entire body with a rush of sweet warmth. It was the touch of a divine being, and it was without comparison. Even so, Sloane’s thoughts were determined to make him miserable.
“Two words,” Sloane grumbled. “Egg baby.”
“My sweet Starkiller, all will be well,” Loch promised, kissing Sloane’s hands. “My family will be visiting soon for your Neun Monde celebration. My mother is the goddess of fertility! If anyone can help us with your pregnancy, it is she.”
“Yeah, but my ‘Neun Monde’ might not be nine months! It might be a century! When are we supposed to have it?”
“I am not qualified to answer that.”
“Is there any way you could maybe call your mom now? Maybe she can hook me up with one of her blessings?”
“I can call my sister. She always hears me. I’ll let her know to bring Mother as soon as possible so we can take care of you.”
“Thank you.” Sloane sighed in relief. “There, now I feel better.”
“Really?” Loch beamed.
“Yes.” Sloane kissed him. “I love you.”
“And I love you, my beautiful mate.”
