CHAPTER EIGHT
"I expect that my son is treating you correctly?
She nods, clasping her hands behind her back, curling her lips, "Surprisingly, yes. He's... changed."
The older man, lay in bed with a sheet pulled up to his neck and holding a hand over his mouth, rolls his eyes, "I see he listens to me, after all."
April ignores his comment, steps closer to the bed, careful not to invade his space and infect herself.
She bites her lip for a moment, pondering her thoughts and selecting her words.
"Do you..." She cuts herself short, takes a small breath, "Do you think he is ready?"
"For fatherhood?"
"For everything."
It's no secret that her husband is going to have a stack of work to keep with once his father passes, not to mention his wife is carrying his own future heir.
"I'm sure he will make a fine leader, he always has. If that was what you were asking?"
"Not only that." She glances down at her swollen belly, and he follows her gaze. "Have you been informed?"
The born Avery in the room coughs then, voice raspy and sickly, almost on the brink of drawing blood, "I have, my dear. I have to say I'm quite proud of him for getting the job done so quickly."
The redhead raises a brow then, moving a hand to rest over her stomach, the other hanging by her side. She ignores his remark, again, and lifts her gaze to reach his own, "We made this child out of love, my King."
"You may have, but did my son do the same? You may need to resolve a few things if-"
"He told me so." April informs him, confidently nodding her head once, twice, before she takes another sharp breath, "He loves me. And I him."
The man had asked for her to come see him so he could get an idea of just who his son had wedded and bedded. He wanted to see sweet April Avery, née Kepner, for all that she was before he no longer possessed the chance.
"Rest well, my King."
She curtsies, nods her head and quickly turns to leave, fingertips hovering over the door when he calls out to her, albeit quietly.
"He will make a fine father, too."
She doesn't look, only pulls open the door and sighs, "I should hope so."
They go through supper in quasi silence.
She can feel his breathing from his seat beside her and he can hear her cutlery scratch, clink.
"How was he?"
"He was well." She tells him, trying to forcefully stab a pea on her plate. She groans, frowns and drops her fork down.
Jackson blinks, a couple of times before he repeats, hands moving to rest down on the table, "Right."
She gives up glaring at the pea and turns her attention to him. He sits at the head of the table, and for once she doesn't sit across from him, instead sitting along the side of the table, claiming he seemed saddened and needed support.
He's going through a lot, changing. He has to, for their sake and for the well-being of the country.
Her hands move onto the table, the right clasping over his left, brushing the pads of her fingers over his knuckles.
He doesn't flinch, budge. He stays calm, peaceful.
"Can I do anything?"
He doesn't reply at first, instead just stares down at their hands, piercing eyes cutting holes through their layers of skin. He licks his lips, perks a brow and looks over at her, "Lie down."
April gulps, shifting her hand away from his and dropping them both into her lap. Her lashes flutter, "Here?"
With a nod, he reaches for her hands again, pulling her up to stand, getting up from his dinner seat to lead her. He pushes the plates of steamed vegetables across the long table, carelessly watching as they fall to the ground with a bang.
"But, the kitchen-"
"They won't bother us." He whispers, leaning down and running his mouth along the curve of her neck, free hands grasping her expanding hips. He pulls her up to drop her on the wooden table lightly, palms holding her knees.
Her smaller hands make their way up to his neck, slipping past his chest and sliding beneath the collar of his shirt.
His lips continue tracing her skin, leaving marks here and there along her jawline. She moans, pushes into him, grips at his strong body like life support.
"Your father doubts your love for me."
"Do you?"
She barely hears him over the sound of her dress ripping, buttons flying across the floor. She gasps, short but heavy, presses into him tighter, "No."
He finds her lips, kisses, bruises, "Then don't question it."
"I love you, too."
"I should hope so." His eyes beam and he smirks, letting a faint laugh pass his lips as he moves down her chest, hands digging into her sides, pulling the open material away from her body.
She allows him to draw the gown away from her body, and she takes a second to admire the way he admires her, gaze focused on her stomach and hands curling around her waist.
He pulls her into him closer, skilfully moves a hand up her back to her hair, cupping the back of her neck tenderly.
She lifts her legs by his sides, dropping her hands to untie his trousers, pulling them just enough to find what she seeks. She takes matters into her own hands by shoving him away for a second and lowering the gentle cloth covering her intimacy, slipping it down her legs with crimson coloured cheeks.
Once he steps toward her again, she doesn't waste a second before she drags his face to her, attacks his lips, bites his tongue.
She wants to blame it on science, on the baby having such an influence on her cravings.
Jackson willingly lets her take him over, choosing to slide his hands to his sides and fall victim to her attack. She presses her head into the crook of his neck as she pulls him from his trousers, aligns him to herself. She sobs out a gentle moan when he enters her, his hands then flying to her sides to hold her into place.
April leans back along the table, chest panting as he bends over her, the skin of his hands burning her flesh comfortably and his stare blinding her own as he kisses over her chest, ruins her preciously innocent flesh once again.
"I-" Her teeth clatter and her eyes snap shut, back rising as he slips his hand between them, fingers pressing against her, toying with her softly.
"Yes." His brows crease, his lips dry, "Cum for me."
Her neck stiffens, the veins in her hands pulsating as she grips his shoulders securely, moving her hips in motion with his own and meeting him skin for skin.
"You-"
"Do it."
She nods, hair sprawling out and tightening her legs around his behind, heels digging into his bare flesh as she rides out her cry of ecstasy, sobbing into his mouth and finding her cries smouldered by his lips.
"Fuck."
Sometime later, when the night is dark and tea is settled and she no longer feels the need to drive him and ride him wild, she finds him moving in the bed.
They'd been asleep for the last few hours, she guesses, so she assumes that it's the middle of the night when her husband leaves the bed and pulls on a pair of loose trousers, and the open bedroom door makes her wonder.
He doesn't talk, doesn't look at her, and for a second she would think he was sleeping with some whore if it wasn't for the terrified look on his face.
He blinks repeatedly, something she knows to be a trait of his, and he purses his lips, cracks his knuckles as he tucks his side of the bed sheet down, failing to notice her state of awareness.
"Jackson?" She voices, raspy and low, moving to sit up in the bed, holding up her side of the cream sheet up to cover her naked chest.
He doesn't talk, but he looks at her.
And then she knows, she understands.
His father.