“I know,” I reply, the words hitting deeper than I expected. “I heard him.”
Silence wraps around us, filled only by the faint patter of rain against glass and the hum of some distant heater. My fingers find the edge of a nearby pot, feeling the rough clay, offering a small point of balance.
“I’m angry,” I admit. “At both of them. At my father for leaving us and working with your family. And at your father for what came after. But I’m also tired of letting things be decided around me while I stand there pretending I don’t see them.”
Luka’s gaze intensifies. “What are you trying to tell me,printsessa?” he asks softly.
The endearment slides under my skin, warm and familiar. I look down at my hands, then at his, then finally back up at his face. If I hesitate now, I’ll lose my courage.
“I took a test,” I confess. My voice comes out softer than I want, so I clear my throat and try again. “Two tests, actually.”
His brows draw together, confusion blooming, then his eyes widen. I can almost see the realization moving through him, piece by piece. The nausea. The fatigue. The way I have been clutching my stomach without meaning to.
“Sage,” he breathes, the word shaped like a question and realization at the same time.
“I’m pregnant,” I tell him. “You’re going to be a father.”
Luka freezes, and every fear I have tried to bury claws its way up. That he will pull away. That he will see me as a complication. That he will treat this baby like another part of his strategy, not a life.
Then everything changes. His breath leaves his chest on a rough exhale. He crosses the space between us in two long steps and cups my face in his hands, his palms warm against my skin. His thumbs brush along my cheekbones, and I realize my eyes have started to sting.
“How long have you known?” he asks, his voice hushed.
“A few days,” I answer. “I wanted to tell you. I just…”
I trail off, frustration coiling in my throat. How do I explain the mess of fear, loyalty, and secrets that has been tying me in knots since Ray first threatened Hope?
“I was scared,” I admit finally. “Of adding more pressure and putting a target on the baby, too. Ray already has so much power over us. I didn’t know how you would react. I didn’t even know how I felt.”
He drops one hand from my face and places it gently over my stomach. The touch is careful, but there is nothing uncertain in the way his fingers spread across the fabric.
“You should never have had to carry that alone,” he voices. His eyes meet mine again, dark with something fierce. “You will never have to hide anything from me again. I will always protect you. You and the baby belong to me,printsessa.”
The words wrap around me like a shield. Possessive, yes, but also comforting. For once, the idea of belonging doesn’t feel like chains. It feels like a promise.
A small, shaky laugh escapes me, mixed with a sob I try to swallow down. “That’s a lot to promise,” I manage.
“I know what it means,” he responds without hesitation. “I understand what it asks of me. Of us.” His hand at my stomach presses a little more firmly, not enough to hurt, just enough that I feel the reality of it. “I will adjust everything. Security. Plans. I will not let anything touch you or our child.”
The phrase “our child” sends a strange heat through my chest. Terrifying and incredible at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “For not telling you sooner. For all the ways this has already gone wrong. For the USB, for Ray, for everything.”
His mouth tightens. “You were trying to save your sister while the ground kept moving under your feet,” he replies. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I kept things from you,” I remind him.
“And I kept things from you,” he returns. “My father. The deeper parts of this life. Apologies are not something I am used to giving, but you deserve one.” He draws a breath, his shoulders lifting and lowering. “I am sorry for the hurt the Bratva caused you. For what my father did. For what my family did to yours. For what your father did to you. If I could pull you out of this world and erase all of it, I would.”
The sincerity in his voice leaves me a little shaken. My fingers wrap around his wrist, where it rests at my stomach, holding him there, needing the contact.
“We can’t erase it,” I answer. “All we can do is try not to repeat their mistakes.”
His gaze softens at that. Something like pride flickers there, quiet but real. “We will do better,” he agrees. “For you. For this child. And for Hope, when we bring her home.”
It’s the first time today he’s spoken about Hope like it’s an absolute. I cling to it.
Movement at the doorway draws my attention. I glance over Luka’s shoulder and see Anya standing just inside the conservatory, a small watering can in one hand. Her eyes are wet and shining, her mouth curved into a smile that trembles at the edges.
