I trace the word love without touching the page, as if contact might smear the ink. The fact that he wrote it, that he says it now without hesitation or drama, sends a strange warmth radiating through my chest. Yesterday, I still assumed one misstep would send him sprintingin the opposite direction. Somehow, he's proved that assumption wrong.
I swing my legs off the bed and test my weight. My thighs protest again. I smirk toward the door as if he can see it through the wall. "You are ridiculous," I murmur under my breath, my voice hoarse from sleep and all the ways he stole it.
I rise and scoop my hair up, twisting it into a messy bun on top of my head. A few strands escape, and I tuck them behind my ear.
The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I cross to the en suite bathroom. Steam fills the glass shower stall within minutes, swirling around me once I step under the spray. Warm water courses over my skin, washing away dried sweat and the faint ghost of Brax's cologne that clings to me. Images from last night flash again, disjointed but vivid. His mouth on my throat, his hand splayed low over my stomach, his voice raw when he said he wanted to put a baby there.
My throat tightens, and not from the steam.
For so many years, my body belonged to the council. So did my blood, my signature, my compliance, my pain. Even my future children were weaponized against me. Now, the idea of a baby isn't rooted in evil, but in a desire from the man who chose me when he had the chance to leave.
I press my forehead against the tile for a moment and let the water cascade down my back. The spray drowns out everything except my own heartbeat. Maybe another woman would be terrified at how quickly life has shifted, but terror has been my constant companion for too long. More than anything, I want to break up with it and never see it again.
I shut off the water and reach for a towel. Droplets slide down my arms as I wrap the thick cotton around my body. I glance at the mirror. My cheeks hold a faint pink flush that has nothing to do with the heat.
"Get it together," I mutter, grabbing my toothbrush. My reflection arches an eyebrow back at me, as if to say,You spent an entire night trapped under an overprotective hacker who wants to breed you into oblivion. You're allowed to be a little dazed.
I smirk more and brush my teeth. I do the bare minimum with skincare, ditch the towel, and pull on a pair of soft black shorts and an oversized gray T-shirt that dips off one shoulder.
I step out of the bedroom, mumbling, "From obeying orders to flipping pancakes. Who would have thought..." I walk down the short hallway toward the kitchen.
Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the living room into a bright, open space that seems bigger than it used to be. Maybe it's because no more Underworld messengers are threatening to summon me, and no more rituals loom like storms over my calendar. The condo holds only my furniture, my things, my husband's scattered gadgets, and the faint echo of moans I'll never admit out loud we made.
I move into the kitchen and head straight for the pantry. My stomach gives an impatient twist. Apparently, my body has decided to remember I'm human and require sustenance. I pull out the container of flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt, setting them in a line on the counter. I grab a bowl from the cabinet and open the fridge for milk and eggs.
The cool air rushes against my bare legs. For a second, my gaze lands on the shelf where my birth control used to sit before I shoved the remainder of the pack into the bathroom trash last night while Brax watched with his dangerous, reverent expression.
A shiver works its way down my spine. I shut the fridge door harder than necessary.
I crack the first egg into the bowl, then the second. The yolks spread in glossy islands of yellow. I measure flour and pour it in, watchingthe white powder devour the color. When the baking powder hits the surface, some of it dusts my fingers. It anchors me in the strangest way. It's a simple domestic motion with no blood, no signatures, no surveillance. It's just breakfast.
I whisk through the ingredients, bringing them together in a thick swirl, and for a moment, my mind wanders to what Brax might be doing at the gym.
He's probably intimidating everyone within a ten-foot radius while lifting unholy amounts of weight and thinking again about getting me pregnant.
I roll my eyes at nothing, a smile tugging at my lips despite the absurdity of that thought.
A sharp sound cuts through the quiet, making me jump. I realize it's the doorbell, and the whisk freezes mid-stir. Batter drips slowly back into the bowl.
My head snaps toward the front entryway. No one is supposed to be here. Zara would call. Fiona would text. Kirill would never drop in without twenty layers of security protocols. Sean doesn't casually swing by, and the council is gone.
My blood runs cold.
Shake it off. It's fine.
Is it?
I set the whisk down, and the metal clinks against the rim. A thick hush settles over the condo.
Ding-dong.
The second chime ricochets along my spine. I wipe my batter-dusted fingers on a dish towel, then move toward the hallway with reluctant steps. My heart rate climbs higher with each one. Old training kicks in before I can stop it.
My eyes sweep the space, and my ears tune for any sound beyond the door. I reach the entryway and pause with my hand inches from the handle. I lean in close and peer through the peephole.
The world narrows to a fish-eye circle. I blink once.
It can't be.
