Chapter 36
NIKOLAI
Iwatch Jenna’s face in the bathroom mirror as she unwraps the pregnancy test. Three weeks since the breeding room, and I’ve been counting days like a man possessed. Every morning I study her body for changes—the curve of her breasts, the flush of her skin, any hint that my seed has taken root.
“You don’t have to hover,” she says, but her voice lacks bite. She knows I need this. Need to see every moment, control every variable.
“I’m not hovering.” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m observing.”
She meets my eyes in the reflection. “There’s a difference?”
There isn’t. Not when it comes to her. Not when it comes to this.
The test package crinkles as she tears it open. My chest tightens. For three weeks, I’ve been imagining her swollen with my child, belly round and breasts heavy. The fantasy consumes me—Jenna carrying proof of my claim, her body changed by mine in the most fundamental way possible.
“Two minutes,” she says, setting the plastic stick on the counter.
One hundred and twenty seconds. I’ve memorized the instructions and researched false-positive rates and optimal testing times. Knowledge as armor against hope I shouldn’t have.
Jenna turns to face me. “You’re terrified.”
“I don’t get terrified.” The words come automatically.
“Bullshit.” She steps closer, places her palm against my chest. “Your heart is hammering.”
It is. Because I want this with an intensity that feels dangerous. I never wanted children before Jenna. Never imagined creating something innocent when I’m built from violence. But the idea of her being pregnant, of making something new from our fucked-up bond—it’s become an obsession.
“What if it’s positive?” I ask.
“Then we’re having a baby,” she says.
“What if it’s negative?”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Then we keep trying.”
Keep trying—she says it as if this is normal. Like two broken people forcing life into existence isn’t an act of supreme arrogance. But I want it anyway. Want to see her body change, want to protect something that’s half of each of us.
The seconds crawl. I count heartbeats, breathing patterns, the subtle shifts in her posture. Hypervigilance turned inward, studying every micro-expression that might reveal her thoughts.
“Time,” she whispers.
We turn to the counter together. The plastic window shows a single line. Clear, definitive. Negative.
The disappointment nearly makes my knees buckle. For three weeks, I’ve been building a fantasy where Jenna carries my child, where I become something more than just a weapon. The empty test window destroys it in seconds.
“Nik.” Her voice is gentle.
I can’t speak or explain why this matters so much when I’ve spent years ensuring I never create vulnerabilities. Children are leverage. Weakness. Everything the program taught me to avoid.
But I wanted this one. Wanted to see if two broken things could make something whole.
“Hey.” Jenna’s hands frame my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Look at me.”
I do. Gray-green and understanding. She sees the devastation I’m trying to hide.
“I wanted it too,” she admits.
The confession makes my chest ache. “I don’t understand why.”
“Because it would be ours.” She traces my jawline with her thumb. “Because you’re not as broken as you think.”
“I’m a weapon, Jenna. Made to hunt and kill. What kind of father—”
“The kind who counts my heartbeats when I sleep. Who brings me coffee exactly how I like it without being asked. Who holds me after nightmares and pretends he doesn’t have them too.”
Her words hit harder than any physical blow. She’s found kindnesses I didn’t know I was showing, humanity I thought the program had erased.
“I wanted to give you something good,” I whisper. “Something not built from violence.”
“You already have.” She pulls my head down until our foreheads touch. “We’ll keep trying. As many times as it takes.”
The promise ignites a desperate hope in my chest. I lift her onto the bathroom counter, settle between her thighs. This isn’t the calculated breeding from the compound. This is pure need so intense it makes my hands shake as I strip away her clothes.
“I need you,” I confess against her throat. “Need to try again.” Even though I know she’ll be getting her period any day since the test is negative.
“Then take me.”
I do. Right there on the cold marble, with the negative test discarded on the floor. My thrusts are harder than necessary, driven by desperation. Jenna meets every movement, her legs wrapped around my waist, holding me deep.
“Fill me,” she gasps. “Make me yours again.”
“You’re already mine.” But I understand what she means. Want to reclaim this ritual, transform disappointment back into hope.
When I come, it’s with her name on my lips and tears I don’t remember shedding on my cheeks. She holds me through the aftermath, her fingers in my hair, whispering promises about tomorrow and next month and however long it takes.
Later, lying in bed with her curled against my chest, I trace patterns on her bare skin.
“The others never wanted children,” I tell her quietly. “None of us did. Too much risk.”
“What changed?”
“You.” I press my lips to her temple. “You made me want things I thought were impossible.”
“Like what?”
“Like normal. Like a family that isn’t built on shared trauma.” I pause. “Like being someone’s father instead of just their nightmare.”
She tilts her head to look at me. “You’re already someone’s everything.”
The simple truth of it settles the restlessness in my chest. Maybe I can’t create life yet. Maybe my seed won’t take root this month or next. But I have this—Jenna choosing me, staying with me, seeing humanity in a man built to be inhuman.
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” I promise.
“And the day after that,” she says.
“And the day after that.”
Until we succeed. Until her body carries proof that even weapons can create instead of just destroy. Until I become more than what they made me.
The negative test lies forgotten in the bathroom, but the hope it couldn’t kill burns bright between us.