“Get it together,” I mutter.
Nerves. That’s all. My adrenaline’s been running nonstop for weeks. Anyone would feel sick.
Still… something about it lingers.
I stand, grab my sweater, and pause.
My period’s late.
The thought slips in sideways, uninvited.
I frown at the wall, mentally flipping through dates like I’m sorting files in my head. Late, sure. Stress does that. Trauma, upheaval, fear—it messes with everything. It’s been my life since Brennan forced his way into my cabin almost three months ago.
Except…
It’s not just late.
It’slatelate.
As in, skipped-a-whole-month late.
My stomach flips again, but this time it’s not nausea. It’s something sharper. I press my lips together, shaking my head. No. I’m overthinking. With everything that’s happened it’s normal for my body to be out of sync.
Isn’t it?
An image flashes through my mind anyway. Tessa and Christina laughing at the family meals with their kids, Christina with one hand resting unconsciously on her pregnant belly. Slate hovering close to her like a guard dog. Jasper carrying his son around like he’s the most precious thing in the world.
Would Onyx be like that? The answer comes instantly, without hesitation.
Yes.
He’d be terrifyingly good at it. The thought makes my chest ache in a way I’m not ready to examine. I shove it down, hard, and finish getting dressed.
One thing at a time.
Breakfast is loud but warm. We’re all trying to make things as normal as possible, though underneath I can see that the other old ladies are nervous. Even Silver and Heaven seem more subdued today.
Queenie’s already holding court at the table, coffee in hand, directing the flow of conversation like a general. The old ladies drift in and out, plates clinking, chairs scraping. Tessa’s arguing about supply runs, and one of the club girls whose name I don’t know, is complaining about a prospect who can’t tell the time.
I slide into a seat beside Christina, accepting a mug of coffee I probably shouldn’t drink given my upset stomach, but do anyway.
“You look pale,” she says, her brow creasing.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She nods absently like she doesn’t quite believe me but lets it go.
Conversation turns to the lockdown, to security rotations, to who’s pulling kitchen duty tonight. Mundane. Necessary. Comforting in its normalcy. I take a bite of my dry toast, forcing it down, and trying to ignore the nausea. My eyes go over to the corner of the large room. Christina and Slate’s daughter, Katie, finished her breakfast and is playing with her pet dog, Bertie. It could be a normal day.
Except we all know what’s happening somewhere miles away, where our men are hunting down a fugitive.
I clear my throat. “Can I ask something?”
Queenie looks at me over the rim of her mug. “You already are, honey.”
I smile faintly. “How do you all feel about kids growing up here?”
The table goes quiet for a second.
