I open the app again and double-check the calendar, staring at the little dots.
I read every note I logged.
Then I scroll back to the month before Pyotr died, forcing myself to reread what I already know: My cycle came two weeks after the last time he finished inside me.
That alone makes my knees weak with relief. Even if the test is positive, Pyotr is not the father.
I nearly jump out of my skin when my alarm goes off at the three-minute mark.
Then I turn slowly toward the innocuous pink plastic test.
My heart pounds in my ears. It shouldn’t matter this much. It shouldn’t make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something vast and irreversible.
But I know why it does.
Because this time, it would be Miko’s.
The man who sees me.
Who listens.
Who took a vow to protect me and has honored it every day since.
He’s the man who touches me like I’m made of something sacred. Who saved me, not just from Pyotr, but from myself.
Air trapped in my lungs, I reach for the test and pick it up with shaking fingers. Two pink lines stare up at me, confirming what I knew the moment I laid eyes on my tampons.
I’m pregnant.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
I grip the edge of the sink, staring down at the tiny window with its two tiny pink lines like the meaning might change if I look long enough. But it doesn’t. The lines stay, clear and unmistakable.
A sob bubbles up and spills from my lips before I can stop it. But it’s not fear that makes my throat ache. Not like it would have if Pyotr were still alive.
It’s joy.
For so long, the idea of a baby felt like a trap, not just for me but for any innocent child I would be bringing into my cruel world.
Pyotr would mention children in the same tone he used to talk about breeding dogs.
Cold. Strategic.
Gloating if he was drunk and trying to impress his men. It made my skin crawl.
But now, with Miko’s name echoing in my heart, the thought fills me with warmth so overwhelming it almost knocks me over. I’m going to have a baby.Miko’sbaby.
For the first time, excitement bubbles up inside me at the prospect.
I press a hand to my stomach again. There’s nothing there yet, no bump, no flutter.
But I imagine it anyway. I imagine Miko’s fingers brushing over my skin as it grows tight and round and swollen.
I imagine him dropping to his knees and kissing my belly, whispering in that low, reverent voice of his when I tell him we’re going to have a child.
A laugh escapes me, shaky and disbelieving, and suddenly, I can’t keep the news to myself. I grab the test and rush toward the door to our apartments, flinging it open. The guard stationed outside looks up, startled.
“Is the disturbance over?” I ask, breathless.
