The Sovarin Bratva. Rowan. Our child.
I look out across the water where black waves move beneath the winter sky, and for the first time in longer than I care to admit, the future doesn’t feel like a narrow corridor closing toward violence. It feels open.
Pain moves through my ribs and along the slice in my side, hot enough now that my body no longer allows me to ignore it. I press one hand there briefly, then let it fall away.
“Nikolai is avenged,” Mikel adds.
I nod once. Not because the words are necessary, because they are true.
Ivan is gone. Arkady is gone. Viktor is gone.
The men who threatened Rowan, who threatened my child before that life even entered the world, lie dead because I put them there. No one is left.
I turn back toward the cars. “Let’s go home,” I tell him.
And this time, when I think of home, I don’t mean the estate. I mean Rowan.
19
ROWAN
The morning light spills across the bedroom in long, soft bands that climb the walls of the estate’s master suite. I lean against the tall window, one hand resting lightly against the curve of my stomach while the quiet of the morning wraps around me.
The gardens below look nothing like they did months ago. Winter had buried everything beneath ice and snow when I first arrived here, the grounds silent and cold, the trees stripped bare as if the world had been holding its breath.
Now the gardens are alive. Green vines wind along the stone walls bordering the lower terraces while fresh leaves flutter through the branches of the old oak trees lining the long driveway. Clusters of white and pale pink flowers bloom across the beds near the fountain, and even the air feels different, warm and alive.
My fingers move slowly across the soft fabric of the pale blue dress hanging from the wardrobe door. Lila insisted on helping me choose something comfortable for the baby shower this afternoon, something loose enough to accommodate the steady growth of the life inside me.
I glance down again at my stomach. It still surprises me sometimes how quickly everything changed. Months ago, my life consisted of hospital shifts, late nights in the emergency department, and a small apartment that felt quiet but predictable. I knew exactly what each day would look like when I woke up.
Now, nothing about my life resembles that version anymore. And somehow that thought doesn’t frighten me the way it once might have.
My hand glides lightly across the gentle curve beneath the fabric of my robe. A small flutter answers beneath my palm. I inhale softly.
“There you are,” I murmur under my breath, my lips lifting as the tiny movement fades again. A few months ago, that sensation would have startled me. Now it feels like a quiet reminder that I’m never truly alone.
Faint voices rise from the lower floor of the estate as staff move through the kitchen and furniture moves somewhere in the garden while preparations for the baby shower continue.
Lila had taken full control of organizing the entire event after deciding the estate needed something joyful after everything that had happened here during the winter.
Her words. Not mine.
I cross the room slowly toward the mirror above the dresser, adjusting the robe loosely around my shoulders as I study my reflection. Pregnancy has softened parts of me I never noticed before. My face looks a little fuller. My movements are slower. And there is a glow in my skin that the nurses at the hospital used to joke about when pregnant patients came through triage.
Now I understand what they meant.
My fingers brush gently along the curve of my stomach again.
“You’re already very popular,” I whisper.
A soft knock interrupts the quiet. I glance toward the bedroom door just as it opens.
Kiren appears in the doorway and pauses there, tall and still, watching me. His gaze moves slowly over me in that familiar way he has adopted during the past few months, careful and observant, as if confirming that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Safe.
His dark shirt is rolled slightly at the sleeves, revealing the strong lines of his forearms. The tension that once lived permanently in his posture has softened since the war ended, though something watchful still lives behind his eyes. It always will.
Our eyes meet across the room. The corner of his mouth turns up.
