Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
alastríona
Three Months Later
Three months. That's how long it's been since Henry died protecting me from Trace Harrington's madness. Three months since I watched my grandfather fall, since I held a knife with shaking hands and wondered if I was strong enough to survive what was coming.
Some days it feels like yesterday. Others, like a lifetime ago.
Today, as I walk through the cemetery carrying fresh flowers, it feels like both.
I know the way by heart now; I come at least once a week.
Henry's grave is in the newer section, but you wouldn't know it from the quality of the stone. Black granite with gold lettering, simple but elegant. Exactly what he would have wanted.
Henry Michael Gallagher, Beloved Grandfather, Father, Leader 1941-2025
I place the white roses at the base of the headstone—his favorites, according to Denis—and settle onto the small stone bench Freddie had installed last month. He said I needed somewhere to sit while I talked to Henry. That standing for an hour every week would get uncomfortable.
He was right. He usually is about things like that.
"Hello, Granddad," I say quietly, using the name I never got to call him while he was alive. "Sorry I'm a day late this week. Things have been busy."
The wind rustles through the trees overhead, and I like to think it's his way of telling me he understands. That he's listening, wherever he is.
"Freddie bought us a house," I continue, smoothing my skirt over my knees. "A proper house, not just a safe house or hotel suite. It's about ten minutes from Stephen and Jessica's place, which I know you'd approve of. Security is important and all that."
I pause, watching a blackbird hunt for worms in the soft earth nearby.
"It's beautiful—the house. Victorian, with a garden that Jessica says will be perfect for..." I stop and take a breath. This is why I'm here today. Why I needed to tell him first, before anyone else.
"I'm pregnant, Granddad."
The words feel strange in my mouth. Real but surreal, like speaking a foreign language I'm still learning.
"I found out yesterday. Freddie doesn't know yet. I wanted to tell you first. It seemed important that you should know, even if..." My voice catches. "Even if you can't meet them."
A tear slides down my cheek, but it's not entirely sad. There's joy mixed in with the grief, hope alongside the loss.
"I think you would have loved being a great-grandfather again. You were so good with Holly and the younger ones. Always patient, always interested in their stories." I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "I wish they could have known you. This baby. Our baby."
The blackbird takes flight, disappearing into the gray Dublin sky.
"Freddie will be a good father. I know that probably seems impossible to believe, given what he does for a living, but you saw how gentle he could be. How protective. He's got that same quiet strength you had."
I lean back against the bench, letting the peace of this place settle over me. It's strange how cemeteries can feel so alive sometimes. All that love and memory concentrated in one space, all those stories continuing even after the storytellers are gone.
"Stephen and Freddie have been working on security for the new house. Motion sensors, cameras, panic rooms, the whole works. Sometimes I think they've forgotten that Trace is dead, that the immediate threat is gone." I smile despite myself. "But I suppose old habits die hard with men like them."
The baby—our baby—is still just a cluster of cells, too small to show, too new to feel real. But already I love them fiercely. Already I'm terrified of all the ways this world could hurt them.
"I'm scared, Granddad," I admit quietly. "Scared I won't be good enough. Scared something will happen to Freddie and I'll be raising this child alone. Scared they'll grow up in violence the way their father did."
But even as I voice the fears, I know they won't paralyze me. Henry taught me that love is stronger than fear, that family protects family no matter the cost. He proved it with his life.
"I miss you," I whisper. "Every day. But especially today, when I have news that would have made you so happy."
I sit with him for another hour, telling him about small things. The kind of everyday details that make up a life, the things Henry always said mattered more than any business deal or territory dispute.
When I finally stand to leave, I place my hand on the headstone one last time.
"I love you, Granddad. Thank you for giving me a family. Thank you for showing me what it means to belong somewhere."
The drive home takes me through the center of Dublin, past the Liffey and the old buildings that have watched this city change for centuries. Home. When did I start thinking of Dublin as home instead of Belfast?
Probably the moment I realized I had people here worth staying for.
* * *
I park in the driveway and take a moment to study the house that will soon be ours.
Red brick with white trim, bay windows that catch the afternoon light, a front garden that needs work but has good bones.
Freddie says he chose it because it reminded him of the house he grew up in before everything went wrong.
The front door opens before I can reach it.
"Hey," Freddie says, pulling me into his arms the moment I cross the threshold. "How was your visit?"
"Good. I told him about the house."
"What did he think?"
"I think he approved. He always said family should stick together."
Freddie holds me tighter, understanding without words that visiting Henry's grave is always emotional for me. That I come back needing comfort, needing to be reminded that I'm not alone in this world.
"I love you," he murmurs against my hair.
"I love you too. So much."
And I do. More than I thought possible, more than feels safe in our dangerous world. But Henry taught me that love without risk isn't really love at all; it's just convenience dressed up in pretty words.
"Stephen finished installing the cameras upstairs," Freddie says as we move into the sitting room. "He says we should be ready to move in by next week."
"That fast?"
"The man's efficient when he wants to be. Plus, Jessica's been nagging him about getting started on the nursery."
I freeze. "The nursery?"
Freddie pulls back to look at my face, confused by my reaction. "For when we have kids. Jessica's convinced it's just a matter of time before we start a family."
My heart pounds against my ribs. This is it; the moment I've been both anticipating and dreading since I saw those two pink lines yesterday morning.
"Freddie," I say carefully. "We need to talk."
Something in my tone makes him go very still. "What kind of talk?"
"The kind where you might want to sit down."
He doesn't sit. He just looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much, waiting for whatever bomb I'm about to drop.
"I went to the doctor yesterday," I begin.
"Are you sick?" The concern in his voice is immediate, fierce. "What's wrong? What did they say?"
"Nothing's wrong. I'm not sick." I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. "I'm pregnant."
The words hang in the air between us like something fragile and precious. Freddie's face goes through a series of expressions: shock, disbelief, something that might be joy.
"Pregnant," he repeats slowly.
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Very sure. Blood test, the whole works."
He's quiet for a long moment, processing. I can practically see his mind working, calculating due dates and security concerns and all the ways a child will change everything.
"How do you feel about it?" he asks finally.
"Terrified. Excited. Like my heart might explode from how much I already love them."
"Good. That's good."
"Is it? Because I have no idea what I'm doing, Freddie. I don't know how to be a mother, how to raise a child in this world. What if I'm terrible at it?"
He moves then, closing the distance between us in two quick steps. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize I was crying.
"You're going to be incredible," he says with absolute certainty. "Fierce and protective and loving. Everything a child needs."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I know you. I know your heart, your strength, your capacity for love. Any child would be lucky to have you as their mother."
The tears come harder now, relief mixing with happiness mixing with the overwhelming reality of what's happening to us.
"We're having a baby," I whisper.
"We're having a baby," he confirms, and when he smiles, it transforms his entire face. It makes him look younger, lighter, like someone who's just been given the greatest gift in the world.
He kisses me then, soft and wondering, like he's afraid I might disappear if he's too demanding. But I want demanding. I want desperate. I want all of him, all of this feeling that's too big for my body to contain.
"Upstairs," I breathe against his mouth.
"You sure? You should rest, take it easy—"
"Freddie. Upstairs. Now."
He doesn't argue after that.
Freddie undresses me slowly, reverently, like I'm made of spun glass. His hands shake slightly as they move over my still-flat stomach, over the place where our child is growing.
"I can't believe it," he murmurs. "I can't believe we made something this perfect."
"They're barely the size of a poppy seed. How can you know they're perfect?"
"Because they're ours. Because they're made from this—" He gestures between us. "From what we have together."
He's right. Whatever else this child inherits from us—his darkness or my stubbornness or the violence that's shaped both our lives; they'll also inherit this love. This fierce, protective, all-consuming connection that makes everything else bearable.
I pull him down to me, needing his weight, his warmth, his complete attention focused on this moment we're sharing.
"I love you," I tell him as he settles between my thighs. "I love you so much it scares me."
"Good," he says, positioning himself at my entrance. "Because you're stuck with me now. Forever."
When he enters me, it's different than before. Slower, more deliberate, like he's trying to memorize every second. His movements are careful, controlled, but there's something almost desperate in the way he holds me.
"So beautiful," he whispers, lips against my throat. "So perfect. My perfect girl."
The praise sends heat spiraling through me. It makes me arch beneath him, seeking more pressure, more contact, more of everything he's offering.
"That's it," he murmurs, adjusting his angle until I'm gasping his name. "Let me see how good you feel. Let me watch you fall apart."
His thumb finds my clit and circles it with just enough pressure to make my vision blur. But when I start to tense, when I can feel my orgasm building, he stops.
"Not yet," he says, voice rough with control. "I want to make this last."
"Freddie, please—"
"Please what?"
"Don't stop. I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand moves to my throat, fingers applying the lightest pressure. "Trust me?"
I nod, unable to speak as he starts moving again. The combination of his thumb on my pulse point and his cock hitting that perfect spot inside me makes everything sharper, more intense.
"You're mine," he says, increasing the pressure fractionally. "Completely. Forever."
"Yes," I gasp.
"Say it."
"I'm yours. Completely. Forever."
"And I'm yours. Every dark, damaged part of me belongs to you."
He releases my throat, and the rush of blood makes me dizzy with need. But still he doesn't let me come, pulling back every time I get close.
"Please," I beg, nails digging into his shoulders. "I can't take much more."
"Yes, you can. You're so strong, so perfect. You can take whatever I give you."
The edge of desperation in his voice tells me he's close to losing control himself. That this slow torture is affecting him just as much as it's affecting me.
"Come with me," I whisper. "I want to feel you lose control."
That breaks him. His rhythm falters, becomes erratic, and when his hand returns to my clit, it's with clear intent.
"Come for me," he demands. "Now."
I shatter around him, the orgasm ripping through me with an intensity that makes me cry out his name. He follows seconds later, burying his face in my neck as he spills inside me with a groan that sounds like prayer.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, hearts racing, breath slowly returning to normal. His hand rests on my stomach, protective and possessive.
"A baby," he says quietly, like he's still trying to make it real.
"Our baby."
"They'll be safe. I promise you that. Whatever it takes, whoever I have to fight, they'll be safe."
I believe him. I have to believe him, because the alternative is unthinkable.
"Henry would have been so excited," I say, thinking of the conversation I had with a headstone this afternoon.
"Yeah, he would have. He probably would've started planning their education before they were even born."
"He would have spoiled them rotten."
"Completely. He would have driven us crazy with all the toys and expensive clothes and security details."
We talk quietly about the future; names we like, colors for the nursery, whether they'll have my eyes or his stubborn streak. Normal conversations that feel almost surreal given our circumstances.
But this is what Henry wanted for me. This normalcy, this happiness, this chance to build something beautiful despite all the ugliness that brought us together.
As the sun sets outside our window, painting the room in shades of gold and amber, I think about the child growing inside me. About the world they'll inherit—dangerous but beautiful, violent but full of love.
They'll have Freddie's protection and my determination. Holly's fierce loyalty and Denis' steady strength. Jessica's warmth and Stephen's wisdom.
They'll be surrounded by family who would die for them without question.
They'll be a Gallagher-Kinnock, with all the privilege and peril that name carries.
Most importantly, they'll be loved. Completely, unconditionally, forever.
That's enough to build a life on.
More than enough.