Here, the carpets are so deep you could lose a finger in them, the paneling so fine you forget that most of it is bulletproof beneath the veneer.
I sit in a chair, a blanket over my knees, and I watch the twins sleep.
The bassinets are matched, white and blue, each with a tiny monogram on the foot—S for Saoirse, C for Ciarán.
They sleep close together but not touching—already, their personalities announce themselves.
The girl is compact, fists bunched under her chin, jaw set in a way that looks uncannily like my own.
The boy is sprawled, loose, mouth open, one hand drifting upward in search of something to hold.
I keep a hand on the edge of her bassinet, just enough to reassure myself that she is still there.
The world outside is quiet.
Not peaceful, but contained.
Even the city lights across the Bay seem muted, the sodium orange of the streets turned down to a dull hush.
Security walks the perimeter every hour, but I barely notice them now.
The new system hums along in the walls—motion sensors, heat mapping, the kind of tech you only see in government installations or paranoid fortresses.
I made a point of having them installed in every hallway, every access point.
Trust, but verify.
My body aches in places I did not know could ache, but I refuse to take the pills they left on the side table.
I want to be clear, even now, especially now.
There is no such thing as a night off.
Ruairí enters the room without a sound.
I know he's there because the air changes—something like electricity, or gravity, pulling me toward him even if I don't look up.
He stands at the doorway for a second, his silhouette framed by the glass and the cold blue of the night behind him.
He watches the twins, then me, and his face does that thing I never tire of—the small, private smile, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he's proud of something but doesn't want to jinx it by speaking.
He crosses the room, slow and sure, his bare feet sinking into the rug.
He sits on the arm of my chair, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and lets his fingers drift up to the base of my neck.
We watch the twins together, saying nothing.
There are moments like this when I allow myself the luxury of imagining that we are just a family.
Not a dynasty, not a war council, not two feral creatures circling the same scarred territory.
Just a man, a woman, and two perfect children, dozing in the amber light of a room so secure it might as well be a bunker.
The thought makes me want to cry, or laugh, or both, but instead I just squeeze his hand and he squeezes back.
The fire snaps, sending a flake of ember up into the flue.
I let my mind wander—not too far, just to the next day, the next week, the next test of strength.
