The name sends a quiet chill through me.
Kiren’s eyes drop briefly to the blanket between us before he continues. “He wanted leverage. He thought telling me would make me hesitate.”
I watch him carefully. “Did it?”
“No,” he says firmly. “It made me move faster.”
My hand slides nervously along the edge of the blanket. “I didn’t know how you would feel about it,” I admit.
Kiren studies me as if the thought itself confuses him. “Rowan,” he murmurs.
He moves closer and finally reaches for my hand. His fingers slide through mine, warm and steady.
“You were taken from me,” he says quietly. His thumb brushes once across my knuckles. “The only thing I cared about was getting you back.”
He exhales slowly, his eyes lowering briefly to where our hands are joined. “And now I learn there’s a child coming into the world that belongs to both of us.”
A faint shake of his head follows, like the thought still hasn’t fully sunk in. “You think that’s something I’d be anything but grateful for?”
Tears sting the back of my eyes. “I didn’t want to hope,” I admit. “Not until I knew.”
His face softens in a way I’ve only seen a handful of times. “You don’t have to hope,” he breathes.
He lifts my hand and presses it against his chest. Beneath my palm, his heartbeat is strong and certain. “You’re carrying my child. And I will love that child as much as I love you.”
The words fill the room like something fragile and enormous all at once.
“You… love me?” I ask softly.
Kiren lets out a quiet breath and shakes his head once, almost amused with himself. “I think that’s been obvious for a while.”
Emotion rises in my chest so quickly that I have to swallow before answering. “I love you too.”
His thumb continues tracing slow circles across the back of my hand.
“There’s something else,” I say after a moment.
His eyes lift immediately.
“The baby,” I continue.
His posture straightens immediately.
“The doctor said everything looks good,” I tell him. “Strong heartbeat. No complications.”
Relief moves through him in a quiet exhale.
“But that’s not the miracle,” I add.
“What is?” he asks, searching my eyes.
I take a slow breath and look down at our hands.
“When I was younger, I was very sick,” I answer. “My mother never talked about it much, but I remember one conversation.”
His brow furrows slightly. “What conversation?”
“The doctor pulled her aside after one of my treatments. I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but I did.”
