I turn toward the door. “Am I?”
He leans forward as far as the restraints allow. “You think removing me changes anything? Ivan will replace me within a week.”
I pause beside the door and glance back at him. “Probably.”
Confusion flashes across his face. “Then what’s the point?”
I study him one last time. “You’renotthe point.”
Volkov’s brow tightens. “Then what am I?”
I open the door. Outside, the hallway lights glow softly across the floor. I look back at him once more before stepping out. “You’re the message.”
The door closes behind me.
Inside the interrogation room, Sergei Volkov finally understands that tonight was never about information. It was about fear. And somewhere in the city, Ivan is about to receive it.
15
ROWAN
Morning arrives slowly. I lie still beneath the thick blanket, letting the quiet of the room gather around me before my eyes open fully.
The estate feels different in the morning. Nights carry a low tension beneath everything, a current that hums through the walls even when the house remains silent. Morning softens that edge. The air feels lighter somehow, calmer, as though the house inhales once the darkness lifts.
Inside the bedroom, the air holds the faint warmth of the heating system and the distant scent of coffee drifting from somewhere downstairs. I inhale slowly and let the breath leave my lungs.
The fatigue sits in my body the moment I try to move. It isn’t the bone-deep exhaustion that comes after a double shift in the trauma unit. That kind of tiredness sharpens the mind even while the body complains. This feels different. Heavier in a dull, unfamiliar way that pulls at my muscles and slows the rhythm of my thoughts.
The first trimester, I remind myself. Every medical textbook in existence warns about it. I have repeated the explanation to countless patients over the years. Hormonal changes. Increased metabolic demand. Blood volume shifting. The body reorganizing itself around the development of a new life. Knowing the science doesn’t make the sensation easier. For the first time in years, my body insists on moving at its own pace rather than the one I set for it.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit there for a few seconds, letting the room come into focus before standing. The thick rug softens the floor beneath my feet as I move toward the windows. The storm that rolled through yesterday has passed. Only its aftermath remains.
Cold light spreads across the glass. The estate grounds stretch wide beyond the house, the snow covering the lawns and hedges in a clean white layer that reflects the morning sun. The long driveway curves through the property toward the gate at the far end, where dark shapes mark the position of the security vehicles stationed along the perimeter.
Even from this distance, the quiet presence of Kiren’s men is obvious. The wordprotectionmeans something different to me now than it did a few weeks ago.
My hand drifts unconsciously toward my stomach. The gesture happens without thought these days, a small instinctive movement that still surprises me when I notice it. My palm rests lightly against the soft fabric of my shirt.
Nothing has changed outwardly yet. There’s no visible curve, no physical proof, but the knowledge lives quietly inside me now, undeniable—a life.
The thought sends a slow warmth through my chest even as uncertainty follows close behind it.
I let my hand fall and turn away from the window. The house remains quiet as I move through the hallway outside the bedroom. The estate feels enormous during the daytime hours, its long corridors and high ceilings creating a sense of open space that feels very different from the tension that gathers after sunset.
Somewhere farther down the hall, a door closes softly, followed by brief footsteps moving across the floor below before the sounds fade again. Most likely, the security staff is changing shifts.
The flow of the house has begun to reveal itself over the past few days. Kiren’s men move with the calm discipline of people used to staying unnoticed unless needed. Doors open and close. Conversations stay brief. No one lingers in the hallways longer than required. The system functions smoothly.
I descend the main staircase slowly, one hand trailing lightly along the polished railing as I reach the ground floor. The smell of coffee grows stronger as I approach the kitchen. Warm light fills the space through the large windows overlooking the rear gardens, where the snow rests untouched across the landscape beyond the patio.
The kitchen looks almost peaceful in the morning light, the dark stone counters reflecting soft gold highlights from the overhead fixtures.
Lila sits at the island. A mug rests between her hands, steam rising slowly from the surface of the coffee while she stares toward the window beside her. Her dark curls spill looselyover one shoulder, and the loose sweater she wears hangs comfortably over the bandage hidden beneath the fabric along her side. Even sitting still, she looks different now, slower and more careful with every movement. The gunshot wound forced that change.
I cross the room quietly and reach for another mug near the coffee machine before pouring myself a cup.
Lila glances over when I sit in the chair beside her. “You’re awake,” she murmurs.
