For two seconds. Maybe.
"Arthur suggested Blade earlier," I say, because apparently Arthur eavesdrops and has opinions. "I told him I'd kill him."
"Stop threatening our accountant."
We lie there, her head on my chest, my hand in her hair. She smells like bread and paint that she claims has no smell but absolutely does.
"We could name them after food," she suggests sleepily. "Since that's apparently our thing now."
"We're not naming our child Lasagna."
"Soup?"
"I'll lock you in a tower."
"We don't have a tower."
"I'll build one. Specifically for locking you in."
She yawns, planning sheets dropping. "Need to coordinate tomorrow. Martin needs supervision. And—"
Asleep mid-sentence. Growing my child while organizing sixty criminals.
Our child.
I adjust the hat, pull her closer. Somewhere in the estate, my enforcers probably debate tomorrow's violence over tea. The Kitchen King's empire, running on scheduled meals and assigned seating.
A year ago, I ruled through fear alone. Now the empire runs on terror and predictable structure. Somehow, the combination proves more effective than pure violence ever was.
The woman in my arms shifts, mumbles something, goes still. Tomorrow I'll extract information, expand territory, make lunch. I'll wear this ridiculous hat, watch her manage assassins, coordinate violence between courses.
This impossible life where bloodshed and domesticity tangle like her fingers through mine.
Shouldn't work.
But here we are, planning baby names between body disposal. Here I am, the Shadow King in a knitted hat who never misses meals.
Kitchen King. Should enrage me.
Instead, I pull my pregnant healer closer and start converting the spare room. Reinforced locks. Poison-testing station. Fortified crib—can't be too careful raising children among professional killers who argue about thyme versus rosemary.
My empire. My family. My absurd, perfectly scheduled life.
Olivia sighs in sleep. I close my eyes.
Tomorrow brings blood and boundaries. Violence and vegetables. Territory expansion between proper meals.
Tonight there's this—her weight against me, wool warm on my head, and a future I never knew to want.
The Shadow King is dead. Long live the Kitchen King.
I've built two kingdoms—one on fear, one on the fear of missing what matters.
The second one's stronger.
Epilogue
Brennick is holding the knife wrong again. Same angle he used on that merchant last week, which explains why the carrots look murdered rather than julienned.
