I shake my head, numb. “I didn’t. I really didn’t.”
He steps closer, but I instinctively move back. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.
“Molly,” he murmurs, pained.
“I’m not scared of you,” I say quickly, because I need him to know that. “But I’m scared of what this means. For the baby. For me.” I take a shaky breath. “You’re part of something that gets people killed, Samuil.”
His face hardens. Not with anger, but with a kind of acceptance.
“Yes. I am.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me before I…” I gesture vaguely, helplessly. “Before any of this?”
“I didn’t lie to you,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t tell you the parts I didn’t want you to worry about.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
He looks down for a moment, then back up at my face. “I’m just trying to protect you,” he says hopelessly. “From the first moment I met you, I’ve only been trying to protect you.”
“I know,” I say, my voice barely steady. “But I needed the truth. I needed to know what kind of world I was walking into. What kind of world my baby is being born into.”
He winces when I call itmybaby. I see it. Then his face softens, eyes lowering to my stomach for the briefest second. He reaches toward me, then stops, letting his hand fall back to his side.
“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you,” he says quietly. “Either of you.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I think of all the restrictions he’s already put in place, all of the ways he’s already limited my comings and goings. Is this what my life is going to look like? Will our child grow up in a bubble, never able to experience the fullness of the world?
I feel surprisingly steady, almost detached, like someone who’s finally seeing the whole picture instead of the parts they want to see.
“I need some air,” I whisper.
“Molly—”
“I just need a minute.”
He exhales, long and slow, and nods once. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
I scoop up the little hat on my way out of the kitchen and hold it tightly in my hand. It’s the only soft thing in this moment, the only thing that calms the sharp edge inside me.
When I reach the quiet of the hallway, I press the hat to my chest and whisper, steady and sure, “I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.”
It’s the first promise I make to my baby, and one I intend to uphold for the rest of my life. No matter what happens, I’ll put my child first.
If we need to cut and run, that’s what we’ll do.
15
SAMUIL
When she comes back into the kitchen, I realize something in her has shifted. It’s not dramatic. She isn’t avoiding me or trembling or watching me as if she expects me to snap. It’s quieter than that. It’s more like a part of her has shut down and is no longer reachable.
Her eyes don’t linger as long when she serves me a bowl of soup. We barely talk during lunch, and when we do, she stays quiet and detached. Her voice stays soft even when she’s clearly irritated by something I’ve said.
I even find myself saying something just to annoy her, but she doesn’t take the bait. She keeps her hands busy with anything she can find. Picking at her sleeves, her hair tie, the hem of her shirt. It’s all subtle, but I feel every bit of it.
She’s pulling away from me.
Maybe I deserve it. Maybe learning that the father of your child runs a criminal empire does something to a person. But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch.
