I hate the part of myself that’s learning how to survive this. The part that memorizes exits and listens more than it speaks, that notices which men defer to him and which ones don’t. I hate that I’m still breathing when everything in my life has been ripped away. Every time I think about Blade, about the blood on my hands and the sound of the gunshot, the guilt crashes into me so hard it feels like I’m drowning. Knowing I’m the one who killed the only man I’ve ever loved, that might be the thing that kills me.
But he’s wrong about one thing. I’m not his pet. I’m a hostage learning the shape of her cage. And cages always have weak points. I just have to live long enough to find them.
I’m dreaming.
I know I am, but it feels so real that I don’t question it at first.
Blade’s hand is spread warm and protective over my stomach, his thumb tracing slow circles like he can’t stop touching me, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that I’m here. That we’rehere. I’m tucked against his chest, wrapped in his arms, my back fitting perfectly against him like it always has.
I’m pregnant.
The knowledge sits easy and certain in my chest, not frightening at all. Safe. Wanted. His.
I lift my left hand without thinking, admiring the way the diamond on my ring finger catches the light. It’s simple but perfect, solid and unmistakable, the kind of ring that says forever without needing to announce it.
Blade notices. He always does.
He smiles down at me, that rare, soft smile that belongs only to me, and presses a kiss to my temple before resting his forehead against mine.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Both of you.”
His hand tightens slightly over my stomach, protective and reverent all at once.
“I’ll always protect you,” he continues. “No matter what. Nothing touches you. Nothing touches our family.”
My chest fills with warmth so intense it almost hurts. This is happiness. Simple. Earned. The kind that feels like home instead of something fragile waiting to shatter.
“I love you,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over mine.
I kiss him back, slow and unhurried, like there’s no rush, like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist. His arms tighten around me, holding me close, steady and sure, like he’s anchoring me to the future we’re already living in.
And then the dream shifts.
The warmth drains away, replaced by cold night air and the sharp smell of asphalt. The softness beneath us is gone, traded for hard pavement and the echo of silence stretching too wide.
The road is dark. Empty. Just like it was that night.
But I’m not on the bike.
I’m standing.
I’m unhurt. Steady. The wrecked motorcycle lies twisted a few yards away, metal gleaming under harsh streetlights. Blade isn’t bleeding. He isn’t even there.
Alexei stands beside me instead.
He looks perfectly calm, perfectly composed, like this is exactly where he belongs. Like he’s always been standing just outside the frame of my life, waiting.
He presses something cold and heavy into my hand.
The gun.
My fingers curl around it automatically, like my body remembers even when my mind rebels.
“This is the moment,” he says quietly, his voice close to my ear. “The one where you decide.”
I shake my head, panic flooding my chest. “No. This isn’t how it happened.”
He smiles faintly. “Dreams do not show us memory,” he says. “They show us truth.”
