Petru stilled, startled, the shift in his face undeniable—surprise, and maybe even discomfort. “Excuse me?”
Emma smiled knowingly. “Oh, come on. A man of your stature? With alpha-genes oozing out of him? When men like you are threatened, they retaliate. But when their women are threatened, they fold like cheap clothing fresh out the dryer.”
My eyebrows shot up.Interesting. Hadn’t thought of that.
Emma began to circle Petru like a predator sizing up its prey. “She must be important if you’re altering your entire battle strategy for her. You’re sitting out awarbecause you fear for her safety, when all you have here are battle-ready women. So, what makes her so different, you would choose to stay out of it, rather than fight?”
Petru’s stoic facade cracked enough to reveal a flicker of something raw and unspoken. His attention followed Emma’s movements, betraying a mix of admiration and something deeper, more personal.
Emma persisted, “Most women at Slava are warriors. They fight alongside you, shoulder to shoulder. So, what makes this woman so…” She trailed off. “So vulnerable?”
Petru’s jaw tightened. Her words were hitting their mark, she was unmistakably on the right track. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Petru’s reaction.
Emma tapped her chin thoughtfully, then leaned in, her gaze sharp with insight. “Is she pregnant?”
Petru’s fists clenched, his entire body going rigid as the truth of Emma’s words sank in. Her eyes softened, a hint of triumph lighting up her features. “I see. Makes sense.” She allowedherself a small, satisfied smile—unapologetically proud of her deduction.
Hell, even I was impressed by how quickly she’d figured him out.
Emma continued, gently yet probing. “I understand wanting to protect a pregnant woman you care about. I even understand not wanting to go to war over her. But I do have a question for you to ponder: when a magi baby is born, does the baby have control over their own translation?”
The Leader of Slava frowned, his reaction muddled by a flicker of confusion at the unexpected line of questioning.
“For example,” she clarified, “if an Amplifier is activated and directed at this Collective, can a baby choosenotto translate in that moment?”
All color drained from Petru’s face, and I knew she had hit a nerve.
Emma leaned closer, her voice a whisper. “How far along is she?”
His posture wilted under the question. Shoulders sagging, he exhaled shakily and stared down at the floor.
“Five months,” he muttered.
Emma nodded, her face a mix of sympathy and resolve. “Which gives us four months to find and destroy the Amplifier—the same one that nearly took my life three and a half months ago.”
She took another step toward him. “The one that took the lives of seven kids that day. We have four months to make this world a safer place for the child. Will you help us do so? Will you stand with us?”
Petru’s eyes met mine, and with a curt nod, he agreed. Holy shit, in less than ten minutes, Emma had achieved what I had failed to do.
I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her yet, but I had to admit—that was fucking amazing.
Petru had graciously invited us to stay the night, personally escorting us to our quarters to freshen up after agreeing to fight alongside us—entirely thanks to Emma.
Knocking on her door, I waited until her voice called out an invitation before pushing it open, a wide grin spreading across my face.
The room was cozy, filled with the soft glow of lamps and the scent of something sweet and floral. Emma was seated on the edge of her bed, her countenance calm and thoughtful.
“Gods, Emma, that was fucking amazing!” I nearly shouted as I stepped into her room, barely containing the grin spreading across my face. “How the hell did you figure that out? You were like a human lie detector. I’m still in fucking awe.”
She shrugged casually, but I could see the confident glint in her expression. “I used some dude-logic. The guy’s obviously dripping with alpha-male bullshit. No way he was going to set his ego aside for another guy. It had to be a woman.”
“Well, you definitely impressed me. ‘Folding like cheap clothing,’” I said with a smirk, shaking my head at her memorable metaphor.
She blinked a few times, visibly taken aback.
“What?” I asked, puzzled by her reaction.
“Nothing,” she replied, her tone softening. “Just… I haven’t seen you smile before.”
