"Four this week."
"And?"
"Disposed of. Efficiently."
The afternoon dissolves into controlled chaos. Territory planning proceeds with ruthless precision. Someone mentions capturing an enemy spy but waiting because "Lady Olivia doesn't like business during meals."
My empire built on fear now runs on meal schedules. But territories expand, gold flows, and my men have never been more loyal.
Dinner erupts. Sixty bodies crammed into space meant for twenty, tables stolen from every room.
Olivia moves between tables ensuring everyone eats. She's wearing the apron I bought her—black with small painted suns along the hem. A compromise between my aesthetic and her need to brighten everything.
"Kaine, you're not eating your vegetables," she scolds. My enforcer—who once killed five men with a dinner fork—takes another serving of green beans.
I'm discussing tomorrow's raid with Arthur when she passes behind my chair, hand briefly touching my shoulder. Small gesture. Clear claim.
"My monthly's late," she mentions, reaching for bread. "Pass the butter?"
The room doesn't stop. Conversations continue. Ridge argues with Finn about seasoning. Tooth practices reading. Arthur passes butter.
But I stop.
Everything stops.
Monthly's late. Like she's mentioning we need eggs. Like she's not detonating my entire existence between soup and bread.
Calculations scramble: Territory expansion divided by feeding schedules multiplied by... a child. My child. In this house of reformed killers who debate herb gardens.
Assassination angles plus nursery placement. Torture schedules around feeding times—infant feeding times. Teaching proper knife grip. No. Spoons. Spoons first.
"We need supplies," she continues, still serving, still casual. "I'll have Ridge handle it tomorrow."
This woman announces potential offspring with grocery list enthusiasm.
I watch her move, noting how she pauses, hand on lower back. How she refused wine. How nutrition lectures have doubled.
A father. The Shadow King who schedules torture around lunch is going to be a father.
"You alright?" Arthur asks quietly.
"Fine." I force focus on the maps. "Eastern approach needs two teams."
But my mind calculates differently. Not attack angles but securing the weapons room. Not escape routes but poison-testing milk. We'll need a dedicated taster. Someone trustworthy. Tooth's developing quite the palate.
Olivia returns to her seat, discusses tomorrow's deliveries with Ridge like she hasn't just announced she's carrying my heir to a room of criminals.
The bedroom is quiet after chaos. She's in bed wearing my shirt that falls to her thighs. I pull off boots, hang weapons on her designated hooks (installed so I'd stop leaving knives on the nightstand), slide into bed still wearing the hat.
"Your ears are cold," she observes, not looking up from planning sheets.
"Always are."
She curls into my side automatically, warmth seeping through cloth. "If it's a boy, we're not naming him Shadow."
I hadn't even... "Terrible name."
"You would have considered it."
