A baby. A family. A future I'd never let myself imagine.
I thought about what Dr. Jackson had said. Your mother would be proud. I didn't know if that was true. My mother had wanted us to be happy, to find something beyond the violenceand the power games. She'd died before she could see what we became.
But maybe Keira was right. Maybe what I'd always been wasn't all I was. Maybe there was still time to become something else.
***
That evening, Keira had a video session with one of her patients. I gave her privacy, retreating to the study to review the plans for tomorrow's operation. But I could hear the murmur of her voice through the walls—calm, professional, the therapist I'd first met in that office weeks ago.
She emerged an hour later, looking tired but more settled than she had after the examination.
"How was it?" I asked.
"Good. Julia is making progress." She sat on the arm of my chair, her hand finding my shoulder. "She said something interesting. About building a life instead of just surviving one."
"What did you tell her?"
"That hope is what keeps us moving forward. Even when it might hurt." She was quiet for a moment. "I think I was talking to myself as much as to her."
"Is that allowed? Therapists giving themselves advice?"
"It's frowned upon. But sometimes unavoidable." She smiled, a small thing that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I've spent so long protecting myself from hope. Building walls to keep it out. And now here I am—pregnant, married, hoping for things I don't know how to name."
"You don't have to name them yet."
"I know. But I want to. That's the scary part." She looked at me, and I saw the vulnerability she usually kept hidden. "I'm starting to want things, Rodion. Real things. A future. A family. All of it."
"Is that so bad?"
"It is when you're used to wanting nothing. When wanting nothing is how you survive."
I understood that better than she knew. I'd spent years wanting nothing except the next deal, the next victory, the next proof that I was strong enough to survive this life. Wanting more than that had always seemed like weakness.
Now I wasn't so sure.
"Maybe surviving isn't enough anymore," I said. "Maybe we both deserve more than that."
She stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she leaned down and kissed me—soft, slow, a question and an answer wrapped together.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. "Come to bed. It's late."
"I should finish reviewing these plans."
"The plans will be there tomorrow." She stood, holding out her hand. "Tonight, I want you with me."
I looked at the papers spread across my desk. The blueprints, the personnel lists, the careful strategies that might mean the difference between life and death. All of it important. All of it urgent.
None of it as important as the woman standing in front of me.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go to bed."
We lay in the darkness, her body curved against mine, her breathing slow and even. She'd fallen asleep quickly, exhausted by the day's emotions, but I stayed awake, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling.
Tomorrow I would finalize the plans. The day after, I would kill Cormac O'Shea. And then—maybe—we could start building the life she'd talked about. The one that was more than just survival.
I pressed my hand against her stomach, still flat beneath my palm. Five to six weeks. Too early to feel anything, but I imagined I could sense it anyway—the tiny cluster of cells that would become our child.
Our child.
