Chapter 15 Rowan
ROWAN
Morning arrives slowly. I lie still beneath the thick blanket, letting the quiet of the room gather around me before my eyes open fully.
The estate feels different in the morning. Nights carry a low tension beneath everything, a current that hums through the walls even when the house remains silent. Morning softens that edge. The air feels lighter somehow, calmer, as though the house inhales once the darkness lifts.
Inside the bedroom, the air holds the faint warmth of the heating system and the distant scent of coffee drifting from somewhere downstairs. I inhale slowly and let the breath leave my lungs.
The fatigue sits in my body the moment I try to move.
It isn’t the bone-deep exhaustion that comes after a double shift in the trauma unit.
That kind of tiredness sharpens the mind even while the body complains.
This feels different. Heavier in a dull, unfamiliar way that pulls at my muscles and slows the rhythm of my thoughts.
The first trimester, I remind myself. Every medical textbook in existence warns about it.
I have repeated the explanation to countless patients over the years.
Hormonal changes. Increased metabolic demand.
Blood volume shifting. The body reorganizing itself around the development of a new life.
Knowing the science doesn’t make the sensation easier.
For the first time in years, my body insists on moving at its own pace rather than the one I set for it.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit there for a few seconds, letting the room come into focus before standing. The thick rug softens the floor beneath my feet as I move toward the windows. The storm that rolled through yesterday has passed. Only its aftermath remains.
Cold light spreads across the glass. The estate grounds stretch wide beyond the house, the snow covering the lawns and hedges in a clean white layer that reflects the morning sun.
The long driveway curves through the property toward the gate at the far end, where dark shapes mark the position of the security vehicles stationed along the perimeter.
Even from this distance, the quiet presence of Kiren’s men is obvious. The word protection means something different to me now than it did a few weeks ago.
My hand drifts unconsciously toward my stomach. The gesture happens without thought these days, a small instinctive movement that still surprises me when I notice it. My palm rests lightly against the soft fabric of my shirt.
Nothing has changed outwardly yet. There’s no visible curve, no physical proof, but the knowledge lives quietly inside me now, undeniable—a life.
The thought sends a slow warmth through my chest even as uncertainty follows close behind it.
I let my hand fall and turn away from the window.
The house remains quiet as I move through the hallway outside the bedroom.
The estate feels enormous during the daytime hours, its long corridors and high ceilings creating a sense of open space that feels very different from the tension that gathers after sunset.
Somewhere farther down the hall, a door closes softly, followed by brief footsteps moving across the floor below before the sounds fade again. Most likely, the security staff is changing shifts.
The flow of the house has begun to reveal itself over the past few days. Kiren’s men move with the calm discipline of people used to staying unnoticed unless needed. Doors open and close. Conversations stay brief. No one lingers in the hallways longer than required. The system functions smoothly.
I descend the main staircase slowly, one hand trailing lightly along the polished railing as I reach the ground floor.
The smell of coffee grows stronger as I approach the kitchen.
Warm light fills the space through the large windows overlooking the rear gardens, where the snow rests untouched across the landscape beyond the patio.
The kitchen looks almost peaceful in the morning light, the dark stone counters reflecting soft gold highlights from the overhead fixtures.
Lila sits at the island. A mug rests between her hands, steam rising slowly from the surface of the coffee while she stares toward the window beside her.
Her dark curls spill loosely over one shoulder, and the loose sweater she wears hangs comfortably over the bandage hidden beneath the fabric along her side.
Even sitting still, she looks different now, slower and more careful with every movement. The gunshot wound forced that change.
I cross the room quietly and reach for another mug near the coffee machine before pouring myself a cup.
Lila glances over when I sit in the chair beside her. “You’re awake,” she murmurs.
The faint smile that accompanies the words looks genuine, though still cautious. Our conversations have carried that same careful tone since the night everything unraveled, both of us navigating the narrow space between who we were before and who we might still become.
“I thought you might still be sleeping,” she continues, lifting her mug toward her lips.
“The baby seems determined to rewrite my schedule.”
The corner of her mouth lifts faintly. “That’s one way to look at it.”
We sit there in comfortable quiet while the sunlight floats slowly across the kitchen floor.
For years, mornings like this would have been impossible.
Our lives revolved around hospital schedules, overnight shifts, emergency calls that pulled us out of bed before sunrise and into fluorescent-lit trauma rooms before most people had finished their first cup of coffee.
Stillness rarely existed. Now it feels almost strange.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
Lila rolls one shoulder gently before answering. “Like someone punched a hole through me.”
“Technically accurate.”
She exhales through a small laugh. “The doctor humor remains strong.”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
Her eyes move briefly toward the snow outside before returning to me.
“I hate sitting around like this,” she admits. “The hospital probably looks like a war zone right now and we’re hiding in a mansion.”
“Hiding implies we had a choice.”
“That’s fair.” She takes another sip of coffee.
The silence feels different now than it once did. Years of friendship built an easy familiarity between us. Now the pauses feel more significant, each of us choosing our words carefully as we try to make sense of the past few weeks.
I study her before speaking again. “Have you heard anything else about Ivan?”
The question emerges gently—curiosity rather than accusation.
Lila’s fingers pause around the mug. Her eyes slide toward the counter for a moment before returning to me.
“No,” she says quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it though,” she adds after a brief pause.
“About him?”
“About how much I didn’t see.” Her voice has a hint of frustration that mirrors the thoughts I know have been circling in her mind since the night everything fell apart.
I lean back in the chair. “What do you remember?”
Lila exhales slowly. “He talked about work sometimes. Security jobs. Consulting contracts. Things like that.”
“Anything unusual?”
She chews on her lip while considering the question. “Not exactly. But there was one thing.”
I wait for her to continue.
“He used to mention someone,” she says cautiously, as though she’s still sorting through the memory.
“Someone?”
“The way he talked about him felt strange.” Lila taps her finger lightly against the side of the mug. “Older man. I never met him.”
Her eyes narrow slightly while she searches through the memory. “Ivan called him the ‘old man.’”
The phrase hangs in the quiet kitchen. I watch her closely.
“He spoke about him often?” I ask.
“Not often,” Lila replies. “But when he did the tone felt different.”
“Different how?”
She shrugs carefully, mindful of the injury beneath her sweater. “Respectful. Not fear exactly. More like the way someone talks about a mentor.”
My mind stores the details automatically. Ivan Malenko is ambitious and well-connected. The idea that someone stands above him does not surprise me, but the information still matters.
“Did he ever mention a name?”
Lila shakes her head. “No. Just that phrase. The old man.”
She lifts the mug again before adding, “I never thought much about it at the time.”
“That makes sense.”
“You think Kiren should know?” she asks.
I nod once. “Yes.”
Outside the kitchen window, the snow glows faintly beneath the morning light while the estate remains quiet around us. Somewhere deeper inside the house, a door opens and closes again. The day has begun.
The estate moves at its own pace during the day. It only took me a few days to notice it.
Somewhere down the hall, a door closes with a muted click. Footsteps move across the marble entry before fading again, absorbed by the thick walls and wide corridors that make the house feel more like a private hotel than a home.
Kiren’s security team moves quietly through the property, rarely lingering in one place for long. Their presence remains subtle but never disappears entirely. Protection has a sound to it. Not loud or obvious, but constant.
I sit curled into the corner of the sofa with a mug of hot tea in my hands and a medical journal open across my lap, though I have not truly read the page in several minutes.
The thin paper feels cool beneath my fingertips while my eyes move over the printed words without absorbing them.
I have attempted the same paragraph three times now, and each time my mind slides away from it before reaching the end.
That rarely happens to me. In the trauma unit, my attention locks in even amid chaos.
I can focus through alarms, shouting, and the metallic scent of blood that lingers in emergency rooms during long shifts.
Distractions usually dissolve the moment a patient enters the room.
But here, in the calm quiet of the estate, my concentration refuses to cooperate.