Mornings at Aethelgard Island began with a sweet, albeit chaotic, charm. Lucifer, having fully embraced his role as the new sovereign of the villa, had decided that being carried was beneath him. The moment his feet touched the warm teak floors, he bolted toward the glass doors overlooking the shore.
"Mine! Mine!" he shrieked, pointing at the frothing surf.
Alaric, fresh from a brief business call, could only shake his head at his son's utter lack of fear. He strode over, hoisted Lucifer with one arm, and carried him out onto the sand.
"Easy, Little Dragon. The ocean isn't going anywhere," Alaric said, his gravelly voice carrying a newfound resonance of tenderness.
Anna followed behind, laden with cameras and baby gear. She couldn't suppress a laugh at the sight of Alaric—the ruler of Avernon City, who usually wore suits worth thousands—now clad only in black shorts, shirtless, and letting Lucifer tug mercilessly at his chest hair.
