Epilogue
LYRA
Six Months Later
By the time we finish dinner, my back aches and my ankles are swollen again. I can’t help shifting in my chair as I rub my belly.
“I’m so tired of waddling around,” I mutter to Damien. “I just want to meet him already.”
Damien looks up from his plate with that small smile he saves only for me.
I think about the day we found out we were having a boy.
Damien held my hand through the ultrasound and nodded along to every word of advice the technician offered.
Then, when the doctor came in and told us it was a boy, he actually cried.
He recovered quickly, probably not wanting me to see it, but it’s an image I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.
“He’ll be here soon enough,” Damien answers fondly. “And when he is, you’ll forget about every ache.”
I snort softly.
“You think so? Because right now, I feel like a whale who can barely breathe, let alone walk across the room.”
His eyes warm as he studies me. “You’re absolutely stunning.”
I want to roll my eyes, but the way he says it makes my throat tighten instead. He means it. He has always meant it, even when I don’t believe it myself.
It’s strange, thinking about how far we’ve come. There are nights I still wake in a sweat, remembering the warehouse, the sound of gunfire. But then I turn and see him lying beside me, steady and protective even in sleep, and the fear eases. Life since that night has been different in every way.
I moved in with him not long after. Now, the penthouse feels more like my space than his.
The office holds both our computers side by side, wires tangled like our lives.
I’ve even claimed one of the guest rooms and started turning it into a nursery.
There are days when he leaves for meetings and I sit by the tall windows, writing code, watching the city glow beneath me, and I think about how much my life has changed.
He still shadows me everywhere I go, of course. There are always men nearby, discreet but present. At first, I hated it, but then I remembered the night we were ambushed, and I’m grateful for it. That’s not an experience I ever want to relive, and I know he feels exactly the same.
I glance across the table at him and suddenly remember the first time we met. I was so tired and so annoyed with that man who wouldn’t respect my boundaries, and he swooped in like a white knight or a superhero. He saved me that night, and he’s been saving me ever since.
He sets his fork down, leans back slightly, and says, “I’m turning over the family business to Alek.”
The words jar me. I blink at him, stunned. “You’re what?”
He holds my gaze. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I’ll keep Integrated Systems since it’s mostly legit, but the rest of it belongs to Alek now. It was my father’s world, not mine. I want to build a better world for our son.”
I search his face, looking for hesitation, but I find none. “You’ve lived that life for so long. Are you really ready to let it go?”
“I’ve been ready since the moment I thought I’d lost you.” His tone is quiet, steady. “That night in the warehouse, everything became clear. Revenge was never the point. You are. Our son is. That’s all that matters to me now. Alek can handle the rest.”
I swallow hard, my hand sliding instinctively over my belly. “So what does this mean for us?”
He smiles faintly. “It means I can build a future with you without endangering your life. It means I can sit here at this table, or hold our son, without wondering whose blood is on my hands that day.” He reaches across and covers my hand with his.
“And it means you can have any role at Integrated you want. Or none at all. It’s your choice. ”
The weight of his words settles over me. This is a game-changer. As much as I love Damien, this has been an issue between us for our entire relationship, and now he’s willing to give it up. Just like that. And he’s giving me a choice he’s never truly had.
“Right now, the only role I want is being his mom. At least until he’s older. Maybe later I’ll want more, but for now, I want to be there for him.”
His thumb strokes my hand. “That sounds perfect. Being his mother is the most important job there is. And when you’re ready, you’ll have more. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
The baby kicks then, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Little man is already celebrating the news.”
Damien grins. He rises, comes around the table, and crouches in front of me. His hand spreads wide over my belly.
“You keep growing strong in there,” he murmurs to our son. “Because when you come out, you’ll have everything you’ll ever need. A mother who loves you and a father who will never let you down.”
I brush my fingers through his hair, overwhelmed. “You’re going to be a good father, Damien.”
His eyes lift to mine, and for once, I see a flicker of doubt. “I hope so.”
“You will,” I say firmly. “Because you already love him more than anyone else could.”
He kisses my stomach, then rises and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is slow, deep, full of all the promises we’ve spoken tonight.
For a while, we sit together in the quiet, talking about baby names, teasing each other over which ones sound too old. He insists on strong names. I tease that I’ll veto anything that sounds like a Roman emperor. We laugh until my cheeks hurt. And then, something strange happens.
It starts as an odd pressure. I shift in my chair at the dining table, thinking maybe it’s another of those late-pregnancy aches that have become a daily nuisance.
Then it happens again, sharper this time, and suddenly warmth spreads across my thighs.
My breath catches in my throat as I realize what’s happened.
My water just broke.
For a moment I freeze, staring down as the realization floods me with a rush of panic and excitement. Damien notices instantly. He’s out of his chair in less than a second, at my side, steadying me with those strong hands that have always made me feel safe.
“Lyra,” he says firmly, his voice low and steady, “we’re going to the hospital now.”
He isn’t panicked or frantic. His calm steadies me even as my heart begins to race.
The next few moments blur together. He helps me stand, slips my shoes on my feet, and grabs the hospital bag he packed weeks ago.
I remember teasing him about being too prepared, but right now, I’m grateful for it.
He keeps one arm wrapped tightly around me as he guides me through the penthouse, his jaw tight with focus.
I can feel the tension in his body, the coiled energy ready to fight any obstacle between me and safety.
By the time we reach the private elevator, the first contraction grips me, low and deep, making me gasp. I grab his arm and cling to him. He leans close, speaking softly against my ear. “Breathe with me, Lyra. In and out. I’m here.”
His voice anchors me through the pain until it eases. He presses a kiss to my temple and leads me into the waiting car. His driver has already pulled up.
In the car, the contractions come in steady waves, and each one takes more out of me.
Damien stays beside me in the backseat, holding my hand so tightly my fingers ache, though I never ask him to let go.
He counts my breaths, wipes the sweat from my forehead with a handkerchief, and kisses the top of my head every time I manage to get through another wave.
When I look at him, I see his eyes blazing with determination.
He’s here for me through the worst of it.
When we arrive at the hospital, everything moves fast. The private obstetrician Damien hired is already waiting, along with a nurse and Becca, who hurries over with tears in her eyes.
She squeezes my free hand and whispers words of encouragement, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude that she’s here, that she’s part of this moment.
They wheel me into a private room, white and clean, filled with the steady beeping of machines and the quiet voices of the staff.
The doctor checks me and explains that it will take some time.
I nod, though a part of me wants to beg for it to be over already.
The contractions grow stronger, rolling through me with a power I can barely comprehend.
I clutch Damien’s hand with each one, leaning into his strength.
He murmurs to me in Russian and English, words of love and promises that I’m the bravest woman he’s ever known.
Hours pass in fragments. I drift between moments of sharp pain and brief relief, between Becca’s laughter trying to distract me and Damien’s voice urging me to breathe.
At one point, when the pain feels unbearable, I think I might break.
Damien leans close, pressing his forehead to mine.
“You are stronger than this, Lyra. You are stronger than anything. I believe in you.”
The conviction in his tone pushes me through another wave.
The labor is rough, far harder than I imagined.
The contractions feel like they’ll tear me apart, and there are moments when I cry into Damien’s chest, convinced I can’t go on.
But then I hear the doctor say it’s almost time, that our son is ready, and something inside me steels.
This is what all these months of waiting and aching have been for.
I grip Damien’s hand and push with every ounce of strength left in me.
His voice never leaves me. He counts, he praises, he tells me I’m incredible. Becca strokes my hair and cheers me on, tears in her eyes. The room is full of sound and motion, and yet all I focus on is the man at my side and the tiny life I’m fighting to bring into the world.
Then it happens. One final push, one final cry of effort, and the room fills with the sound of a newborn’s wail.
My body collapses back against the bed, tears pouring down my face as the nurse lays our baby boy on my chest. He is so small, warm, and perfect, his cries high and desperate as he curls against me.
I cradle him with trembling arms, pressing my lips to his damp forehead.
“Hi, baby,” I whisper, sobbing with relief and joy. “I’m so glad to meet you.”
Damien leans over me, his own eyes wet, his hand cupping our son’s tiny head. He kisses me, then kisses our boy, whispering, “My son. My little one.”
His voice breaks, and I see a rawness in him I have never seen before. This man who has always been so controlled, so powerful, looks undone by the sight of his child.
Becca is crying outright now, covering her mouth with both hands.
“He’s beautiful,” she says softly, leaning close to kiss my cheek. The doctor checks us both quickly, then smiles and nods.
“He’s perfectly healthy,” he tells us. “We’ll just get him cleaned up.”
Relief surges through me again, fresh and overwhelming. The nurse takes him away for a few minutes before giving him back, all freshly scrubbed and swaddled in a warm blanket.
Eventually, the doctor and Becca step out, giving us privacy.
The room falls quiet except for the soft cries of our son as he nestles against my chest. Damien sits on the edge of the bed, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, pulling us both into the circle of his strength.
He strokes our son’s tiny back with one hand, his other hand clasping mine.
I look up at him through my tears, and the words fall from my lips without thought. “I have never been happier in my life.”
He presses his lips to mine, slow and tender, then leans to kiss our son again. “Neither have I,” he answers.