Chapter 40
Freya got home at four-thirty, ate, and passed out. I was almost worried by how deep her sleep was, which is why I stepped out to occupy myself with something other than watching her breathe.
The saw finishes its cut with a clean hiss, and I kill the power. The blade spins down, and the workshop settles into that familiar quiet with sawdust in the air, tools lined up the way I like, the heater humming because the bite of the winter morning is more than even I like.
I run my thumb along the shape of the crib’s edge. It’s smooth and solid. This piece will hold. I need something grounding today because the chaos of yesterday unhinged even me.
I set the cutout along the back wall and brace both hands on the workbench, breathing deep, shoulders tight with everything I didn’t let myself feel last night. No matter how much concentration my craft takes, it’s not enough to distract me from yesterday.
I lay awake last night and let it settle. Freya. The baby. Echo Valley. This isn’t a phase or a detour. It’s my life now.
The right one.
The certainty runs so deep that doubt doesn’t survive it. Whatever came before feels distant, like it belonged to another man entirely.
Footsteps approach outside, soft, sneakers, not boots.
And then the door creaks open.
Freya fills the doorway. That enticing hair of hers is still damp from a shower, jeans hugging every curve. She looks tired and beautiful and here.
“You’re up,” I say.
She grips the door frame. “Well, I did pass out at what? Six?”
I put the sandpaper down. “Something like that.”
She steps inside the workshop, gaze flicking to the crib pieces. “You’re working on it.”
“For her,” I say. Then, I soften it. “For us.”
“Anton…” She runs her finger along the workbench. “We need to talk.”
My chest tightens, one hard hit under my sternum.
Yesterday cracked everything wide open. I can only imagine how fucking scary it all was on that ledge with a lunatic with a gun in his hand.
I move toward her slowly. “Sure, honey. You got all my attention.”
A small, shaky smile touches her mouth.
She suddenly seems unsteady. It’s too early. She should be sleeping. Resting. It took it out of her. Her fingers tremble where they rest on the edge of my workbench.
Shit.
I step forward. “Freya? Sit…” I grip her hips in my hands and hoist her up onto the workbench.
Fuck, is she not feeling right? Is it the baby?
She shakes her head fast. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I just…” Her eyes flick upward, and I swear I see my whole damn world in them.
But I also see a nervous energy that’s not usually there.
What the hell is going on? Did they miss something at the hospital?
“Talk to me.” I take her hand.
“Anton… I love you.”
The words crack something open I’ve kept sealed for a long time. I don’t speak. Don’t move. I let them hit me fully before I earn the right to answer.
Then, I slide between her legs and slip my fingers under her chin. “I love you, too.”
She smiles softly. “I wanted to say it first because I want you to know I mean it and I’m not just saying it back.”
My thumb sweeps her cheek. “And I want you to know, I’ll never say those words to any other woman but you.”
I slide my hands to her waist, firm enough that she feels exactly where she stands with me. I’m careful, not because I doubt this but because yesterday is still written on her bruised skin.
But I need her in my arms.
So I kiss her.
She rises onto her toes, mouth opening for mine, the heat of her unraveling me. Her tongue slides into my mouth, and I taste her like it’s the first time.
I murmur against her mouth, my voice rough with restraint. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, breath warm and unsteady. “Everything hurts.” Her lips brush mine again. “Still want you.”
She cups her hand around my cock, and I smile against her mouth.
Then…a knock.
“Anton?”
We freeze, and the door pushes open.
Freya jerks her hand back and smooths her hair.
Ava lifts an auburn brow, one hand on her hip, the other holding a paper bag.
“Huh,” she says casually. “That’s not the kind of work I thought you did out here.”
Freya’s mouth twists into a bashful smile.
Ava holds up the bag. “I brought breakfast. And also came to check you didn’t tear your stitches or attempt to hero your way through a bullet wound.” She puts the bag on my bench. “But today it just looks like you’re trying to save the human race.”
Freya lets out a muffled laugh.
Ava smirks. “You know you can only have one baby at a time?”
She points to the bag on the workbench and glances between us. “There are donuts in there. Enough to feed your next generation.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She contemplates us for a beat, then plants a hand on her hip. “So. Now that you two are officially a thing…what does that make me?”
Freya tilts her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Ava says thoughtfully, “if Anton is my bruncle, does that make you my saunt? Or my aunter?” She frowns slightly, genuinely working through the logistics. “But really, you feel more like a sister.”
Freya glances at me, amusement tugging the corners of her mouth.
Everything in the world locks into place.
Ava nods to herself. “We’ll workshop it.”
She steps closer, admiring Freya, and I know she has sympathy for all she’s been through. Her gaze drops to Freya’s belly, and she hovers her hands for half a second before glancing up at Freya. “May I?”
Freya nods.
Ava presses her palm gently to her belly, her expression shifting into something quiet and reverent without making a show of it. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she murmurs. “All of you.”
Freya’s hand covers Ava’s, and I feel it then—the shape of something bigger than the three of us settling into place.
Ava straightens, clearing her throat like she didn’t just get emotional in a woodshop. “Anyway.” She points vaguely at us. “I’ll pretend I didn’t interrupt whatever that was.”
The door closes behind her.
Silence settles back into the workshop, and this time, it’s warmer and fuller.
I press a kiss to Freya’s temple and let myself stay there, grounded in her.
My life has been a long act of offering—strength where it was needed, loyalty where it mattered, and sometimes, where it didn’t. I spent parts of myself so others could stand, survive, and keep going.
I never counted the cost. But I knew something was missing.
Standing here with her…it finally makes sense.
Most people don’t notice the pieces they’ve lost until someone shows up holding them.
And in that moment…you know you’re whole again.