The nursery was taking shape in the east wing of the estate, a sun-drenched room with windows that overlooked the sea. Kabir had insisted on painting it himself. Amber found him there one afternoon, his sleeves rolled up, his dark hair dusted with pale pink paint. The walls were the color of seashells, soft and luminous. A white crib stood in the corner, still wrapped in plastic. Boxes of tiny clothes and plush toys waited to be unpacked. The room smelled of fresh paint and possibility.

Amber leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting on the heavy swell of her belly. She was seven months pregnant now, her body lush and ripe, her curves fuller than they had ever been. She wore a thin cotton sundress that clung to every dip and swell, and beneath it, nothing at all. The pregnancy hormones had turned her into a furnace of constant, aching need. She was wet now, just from watching him. Just from the way his muscles flexed beneath his paint-stained shirt. Just from the memory of what those hands could do.