"I know."
Neither of us moved.
"Rodion?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens now? With the Petrovics, with everything?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Branko is dead. Cormac is dead. The immediate threat is neutralized. But Milos—Branko's father—is still in Serbia. He'll come for us eventually. This isn't over."
"But for now?"
"For now, we're safe. We have time to prepare, to fortify, to build alliances." His hand moved to my stomach, resting over the place where our child was growing. "Time to become a family."
A family. The word still felt foreign, impossible. I'd spent so long running from the very concept, convincing myself I didn't need it, didn't want it.
Now I couldn't imagine wanting anything else.
"I'm scared," I admitted. "About the baby. About being a mother. I don't have any models for how to do this right."
"Neither do I. But we'll figure it out together." He pressed a kiss to my hair. "That's what partnership means, right? Facing the unknown together."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I had a good therapist."
I laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of me—and felt something loosen in my chest. The last knot of tension, the last wall I'd been holding up. It crumbled, and what remained was just me. Just us. Just this moment, fragile and precious and real.
"I love you," I said again, because I could. Because I wanted to. Because the words felt like oxygen after years of holding my breath.
"I love you too." He pulled me closer. "Now sleep. We have the rest of our lives to figure out what comes next."
I closed my eyes and let myself drift, safe in his arms, the first pale light of dawn filtering through the curtains.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn't afraid of what tomorrow would bring.
I woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The room was unfamiliar—different from the penthouse, different from anywhere I'd been before. Then the memories came flooding back. The manor. Branko. The rescue. The safe house.
Rodion.
I sat up, wincing at the soreness in my muscles, and looked around. The bed beside me was empty, but I could hear movement from somewhere else in the house. The clink of dishes, the low murmur of a voice on the phone.
I pulled on Rodion's shirt from the night before—ruined, bloodstained, but the only thing within reach—and padded downstairs.
He was in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, wearing sweatpants and nothing else. The morning light caught the planes of his chest, the scars I'd traced with my fingers, the muscles that shifted as he moved.
He looked up when I entered, and his face transformed. That smile—the real one, the one he saved for moments when no one else was watching.
"She's awake," he said into the phone. "I'll call you back."
He hung up and crossed the kitchen to pull me into his arms. I went willingly, melting into his warmth, breathing in the scent of coffee and sleep and him.
"Good morning," he murmured against my hair.
"Good morning."
