The bathroom door opens. She emerges with all five tests, sets them on the nightstand.
"Three minutes," she whispers.
I pull her onto the bed, into my lap. My hand finds her stomach again—that constant, possessive touch.
"How do you feel?" I ask.
"Terrified. Overwhelmed. Nauseous."
"All normal." I kiss her neck. "Your body is doing exactly what it's supposed to do. Growing our baby. Making sure it has everything it needs."
"I'm twenty years old."
"And pregnant with my child. Perfect."
The timer on her phone goes off. Three minutes.
She reaches for the tests with shaking hands. Turns them over one by one.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
All five. Clear, unmistakable lines. Some digital, showing the word "PREGNANT" in stark letters.
She stares at them, tears streaming down her face.
I drop to my knees in front of her, press my face to her still-flat stomach.
"Thank you," I breathe against her skin. "Fuck. Thank you."
My hands shake as I hold her. Two years of obsession. Two years of planning. Two weeks of constant breeding.
And it worked.
She's pregnant. Carrying my baby. Mine in the most fundamental way possible.
"Pyotr," she whispers, her hands finding my hair.
I look up at her, and I know she can see everything I'm feeling written on my face. The triumph. The possession. The overwhelming rightness of this moment.
"You're mine now," I tell her. "Completely. You're carrying my baby. In nine months, you're going to give me a child. Make me a father. Nothing can undo that. Nothing can take you from me now."
"I know."
"Say it." I need to hear it. "Say you're pregnant."
"I'm pregnant." Her voice breaks on the words. "I'm pregnant with your baby."
I surge up, kiss her hard. Claiming her mouth the way I've claimed her body. She kisses me back, tears streaming down both our faces now.
When I pull back, I lift her, carry her to the bed, lay her down carefully.
