Chapter 20 Julian
I hate hospitals. Not because of the possibility of death or the possibility of pain—they never scared me, not even as a child—but because of the smell.
Hospitals reek of defeat, a mixture of bleach and boiled skin and the black mold they can never fully eradicate, no matter how much they try.
The walls are always white, the floors always shining, but the air is rotting with the flesh of people who weren’t strong enough to survive.
Yet here I am, guiding Amara through the east entrance of St. Matthews, shoes tapping perfectly in sync along the pristine marble.
She walks beside me, head down, her hair damp from the shower, the back of her neck still red from where I bit her.
I want to bite it again, want to drag her into a janitor’s closet and fuck her until she forgets why we came, but she’s fixated on the sign for the Maternity Suite, so I let her lead.
The elevator is glass and steel, open on one side to a view of the city, and I catch our reflection as we rise: she’s in a basic T-shirt and jeans, I’m in a black button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Her hair is mussed and her eyes have bags under them, her lips chapped and red.
We look like a couple of deviants, barely cleaned up from the night before.
I like that. I like that we don’t belong here.
She touches the glass with her fingers, tracing the skyline, and I watch the light chase the veins under her skin.
“Are you nervous?” I ask, voice low.
She shakes her head. “Not about the baby.”
“About what?”
She hesitates, then sighs. “I dunno, I don’t really know how to hold a baby.”
I don’t know how to answer that without sounding parental so I just take her hand and rub it with my thumb.
The elevator pings, the doors opening onto a hushed corridor lined with fake ferns and framed certificates. The staff at the desk wear pastel scrubs and forced smiles, but they go silent when they see us. I ignore them and walk straight to room 1208.
Rhett stands outside the door, back to the wall, arms folded so tight his biceps threaten to shred the sleeves of his shirt. His hair is a disaster, dark circles carving out his eyes. He sees us, and for a second his mouth flickers between a smirk and a grimace.
“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re alive.”
I shrug. “Been busy. But yes.”
His eyes dart to Amara. He tries to say something witty, but his voice cracks and he ends up coughing instead.
“You can go in,” he says, looking at his shoes. “She’s awake. They—uh—they’re both fine.”
I nod. “Come on, darling.”
He doesn’t follow. He just leans against the wall, head tipped back, and lets out a shaky breath.
Inside, the room is flooded with too much light.
The curtains are open, the bed is perfectly made, and Isolde is propped up against a mountain of pillows on the couch.
She looks tiny, shrunken, the hard angles of her face softened by exhaustion and love.
In her arms is the baby, swaddled so tight it looks like a doll.
Amara freezes in the doorway, and I have to nudge her forward with a hand at her spine.
Isolde glances up, eyes glassy but sharp. She sees us, and the edge comes back into her voice.
“Don’t you fucking dare cry,” she says, looking at Amara. “I’ll stab you if you do.”
Amara huffs, “You look like shit.”
“Better than you, bitch.” Issy giggles and I stifle a smile at how easily these two get on, despite barely knowing each other.
I walk to the side of the couch, lean down, and look at the baby.
He’s ugly. All newborns are ugly. But there’s something perfect in the smallness, the absolute purity of him. His hair is black and glossy, matted down like wet paint. His fists are balled up under his chin, and his mouth opens and closes. His eyes are dark, lined by long lashes.
Isolde sees my face. “His name is Maverick.”
“Yeah, Rhett said.” I snort. “You named him after a Tom Cruise character.”
“Shut up, Roth.”
Amara steps closer, but not too close, like she’s afraid she’ll break something by breathing. Her eyes are wide, lips parted. I can see the tremor in her hands.
Isolde cradles the baby tighter, then gestures with a tilt of her head. “Come here.”
Amara moves, slow and deliberate, and sits at the edge of the couch. She stares at the baby, then at Isolde, then back at the baby, as if trying to understand how it got here.
“He looks like Rhett,” she says.
Isolde grins, but it’s weak. “Poor fucker.”
They share a moment—silent, ancient, the way only girls who survived the same slaughter can.
“Do you want to hold him?” Isolde asks.
Amara recoils, but then nods. She wipes her hands on her jeans, as if that will make a difference, and reaches out. Isolde shows her how to support the head, how to cradle the weight against her chest.
I expect Amara to fumble, to panic, but she goes still. Her face is pale and blank, eyes glued to the tiny thing in her arms. She rocks him, barely, and he blinks up at her, mouth working in a slow, wet rhythm.
For a moment, the room is silent. Then Maverick lets out a squeak, and Amara almost laughs.
Isolde watches her, then shifts her gaze to me.
“You want a go?” she asks.
“No.” I step closer, crouch down so I’m eye level with the baby. I study him, the way his nose wrinkles when he yawns, the way his hands grasp at the air. I reach out, touch his cheek with my thumb. His skin is impossibly soft.
He turns, latching onto my finger, and his grip is shockingly strong.
Isolde smiles, a real one this time. “He likes you.”
I shake my head. “He likes the warmth. The pulse. It’s instinct.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
I smirk, but I don’t argue. I look at Amara, at the way her hair falls around her face, at the way she studies the baby like he’s a puzzle she can solve.
“You look good with him,” I say.
She ignores me, but I see the flush climb her neck.
There’s a knock at the door. Rhett sticks his head in, eyes flicking from Isolde to the baby to me.
“Can I—?”
Amara nods and hands the baby over, careful and slow. Rhett takes him with both hands, holding him like he might shatter at any moment.
He just stands there, staring down at the thing he made. His expression is unguarded, raw.
I’ve never seen him look vulnerable. Not once. It’s almost beautiful.
He clears his throat. “Hi, little man.”
The baby blinks, then screws up his face and starts to wail. Rhett panics, looks at Isolde, then at me, then back at Isolde.
“What do I do?”
“Give him back,” Isolde says, laughing.
Rhett does, relief flooding his face as he sets the baby into her arms.
Amara sits back, watching, her hands clenched in her lap. She looks at me, and she looks content.
Rhett stands at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, and looks at me.
“You sticking around?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “Depends on what happens next.”
He nods, like he expected that answer.
Isolde rocks the baby, her eyes already drooping. “You two should go,” she says. “I need to sleep before they try send us home.”
I stand, reach for Amara’s hand, and pull her up. She resists, but only a little.
“Come on, baby girl. Let’s let the family rest.”
We leave the room, the door closing softly behind us. Rhett joins us in the hallway, staring at the ceiling.
I clap him on the shoulder. “You’ll be a good father.”
He snorts. “You’re full of shit.”
“Maybe. But you will.”
He nods, then slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, head in his hands.
“You good, bro?” I ask, curious why he’s not with Issy.
Rhett looks up at me. “Yeah, man. I mean… I love them both, but I’m fucking terrified. Terrified of failing them, like we were failed. Terrified I’ll do something wrong.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Listen, we all fail, the real issue is whether you’ll man up and fix it or if you’ll let years go by, allowing anger and hatred to build. You get the choice.”
He nods. “You’re right. I just have to make better choices than the old generation. Do better. And I will. Because they’re worth it.”
Amara watches him, then squeezes my hand. “You got this, Rhett. I believe in you both. We’re just a phone call away.” She smiles before looking up at me. “You ready to go?”
“Of course.”
We walk down the corridor, her hand in mine.
At the elevator, she looks up at me.
“Do you ever want that?” she asks.
“A baby?”
She nods.
I study her, the delicate line of her jaw, the way her eyes are always wide and curious. I imagine her swollen with my child, imagine the violence of birth, the blood and the screaming and the welcoming of a new life into this fucked up world.
I like the idea.
The elevator opens, and we step inside.
As the doors close, I press her against the wall, my mouth at her ear.
“One day, Amara. I’ll fill you up with my bloodline, and you’ll ruin the world for me.”
She smiles, a real one, the kind that means she believes me.
I kiss her, slow and deep, the way you kiss something you own.
The way you kiss someone you love more than you love yourself.
The elevator glides down, the city waiting for us.
We are the future, and the world doesn’t even know it yet.
From the penthouse balcony, I can see all of downtown. I don’t believe in safety, not in the way lesser men do, but I like this perch above the world. I like knowing that down there, the chaos is caged, and up here, we’re free to be whatever animals we want.
Amara steps out onto the terrace behind me. She moves without fear now, a lioness who’s learned that the only way to be safe is to create it. She watches the city for a moment, arms folded against the cold, then looks at me.
“You hate hospitals,” she says.
I nod. “They’re filled with the wrong kind of suffering.”
She leans on the railing, hip cocked, eyes tracking the motion of a helicopter as it glides toward the trauma center. “You’re not as detached as you pretend.”
I smile. She’s not wrong. “Detachment is boring. Deciding who is worthy of attachment is better.”