My black dress from the party is crumpled in the corner where I threw it three hours ago when I stumbled home alone, desperate to wash off the night. The bathroom tiles are cold against my bare legs, and I'm wearing one of Zane's t-shirts—one he left here last week, now a constant reminder of choices that can't be undone. The fabric still smells like him: leather, gun oil, and something darker that makes my chest tight with want and regret in equal measure.
The knock on my door is soft, tentative—not Miguel's style at all. When I don't answer, it comes again, followed by: "Lena. It's me."
Zane.Because apparently boundaries are just suggestions when you're carrying someone's child.
"Use your key," I call out, then remember I never gave him one. "Fuck. Hold on."
I'm dragging myself up, catching my reflection—destroyed makeup, tangled hair, general aura of someone whose life is actively imploding. Perfect.
By the time I make it to the door, he's knocked twice more. I open it to find him looking like he hasn't slept either, still in last night's clothes with fresh blood on his collar—not from the party, this is newer, darker.
"You look like death," he says.
"Flattery will get you nowhere." I step aside to let him in. "Also, is that blood?"
"Rico tried to follow me here. Changed his mind." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "Brought supplies."
He holds up a plastic bag—ginger tea, saltines, those pregnancy pops I mentioned once in passing Thursday night. Of course, he remembers everything.
"Bathroom," I manage, then immediately regret it as another wave of nausea hits.
He appears in the doorway, all dangerous concern and misplaced tenderness, still in last night's clothes too. We match in our dishevelment—disaster twins, except one of us is growing a third disaster inside them.
"Morning sickness?" he asks, already kneeling beside me, hand finding the back of my neck.
"Morning everything," I correct. "Sickness, regret, existential crisis. The full breakfast special."
He huffs something that might be a laugh, fingers working at the tension in my neck. "You need water."
"I need a time machine."
"Fresh out. Water will have to do."
He disappears, returns with a glass and a cool washcloth. The tenderness in his movements makes my chest tight—this killer playing nursemaid, this enemy bringing me comfort. The irony would be delicious if I could keep anything down.
"Miguel's going to find out," I say into the washcloth.
"I know."
"He's going to kill you."
"He'll try."
"This isn't a joke, Zane." I lift my head to look at him, really look at him. "You don't know him like I do. He found out about a boy who grabbed me in high school—just grabbed my ass at a party—and that kid ended up in the ICU with no memory of how he got there."
"And I'm not some high school kid," Zane says, voice steady. "I knew what I was risking when I touched you. Worth it."
"Worth dying for?"
"Worth everything for."
The sincerity in his voice breaks something in me, and I'm crying before I can stop it—hormones and exhaustion and the sheer overwhelming reality of what we've done.
"Hey," he murmurs, pulling me against him. "We'll figure it out."
"There's no figuring this out," I sob into his chest. "I'm pregnant with an Iron Talon's baby. My brother's sworn enemy. This isn't Romeo and Juliet, it's—"
The front door slams open with enough force to shake the apartment.
