Chapter 41
JENNA
Iwake with bile rising in my throat, the familiar churn that’s plagued me for three mornings now. My body knows before my mind catches up—the tender breasts, the exhaustion that sleep doesn’t cure, the way certain smells make my stomach revolt.
Nikolai sleeps beside me, one arm draped across my waist. His face is peaceful in the pre-dawn darkness, stripped of the predatory intensity that defines his waking hours. I slip from beneath his arm, padding barefoot to the bathroom.
The pregnancy test waits in the medicine cabinet where I hid it yesterday. My hands shake as I unwrap it, the plastic crinkling too loud in the silence. Three weeks since the negative result that devastated him. Three weeks of him watching me with hungry hope every time I complain of fatigue.
The wait feels eternal. I sit on the closed toilet lid, staring at the white stick balanced on the edge of the counter. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat echoing in my ears like gunshots.
Two pink lines materialize.
Positive.
The test tumbles from my fingers, clattering against the tile. I stare at it lying there, those two lines stark and undeniable. Real. Permanent. Binding me to him in a way even his conditioning couldn’t achieve.
A sob tears from my throat. Then another. The bathroom walls close in around me as the full weight crashes down. There’s a human being growing inside me—Nik’s child, made from violence and obsession and whatever twisted love we’ve built from our shared brokenness.
What kind of mother will I be? What kind of world are we bringing this child into?
I sink to the floor, knees drawn to my chest, and let the terror consume me. The sobs come in waves, ugly and raw. I press my face against my knees and try to muffle the sound, but it’s too late.
“Jenna?” Nikolai’s voice is rough with sleep. His footsteps cross the bedroom, then pause at the bathroom door. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
I can’t answer. Can’t form words around the panic lodged in my throat. The door opens, and he’s there, naked and disheveled, his pale eyes immediately taking in the scene—me crumpled on the floor, the pregnancy test next to me.
He drops to his knees, reaching for me. “Hey, breathe. Just breathe.”
“I can’t—” The words come out choked. “I can’t do this.”
His arms circle me, pulling me against his chest. His skin is warm and familiar, but it doesn’t ease the terror. “What happened? Talk to me.”
I gesture weakly at the test. “It’s positive.”
He goes utterly still. I feel his breath catch, his heartbeat stutter beneath my cheek. Then his hand is in my hair, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
“Positive?”
The wonder in his voice makes fresh tears spill over. “I’m pregnant, Nik. We’re going to have a baby, and I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be a mother. What if I’m like my stepfather? What if I hurt—”
“Stop.” His voice cuts through my spiral, firm but gentle. “You won’t hurt our child. You couldn’t.”
“You don’t know that. Look at what we do. Look at what we are.” I gesture between us. “We’re killers. We hunt people. We torture information out of them and leave bodies in our wake. What happens when this baby needs normal things? School pictures and birthday parties and—”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“How can you be so calm?” The question comes out as an accusation. “This changes everything. Forever. No going back, no escape routes, no clean exits. Just this tiny person depending on us not to destroy their life.”
Nikolai’s thumb traces the tears on my cheek. “Because I’ve never wanted anything more.”
The simple honesty stops my spiral short. I search his face, finding no trace of his usual calculated control. Just raw, unguarded joy mixed with awe—protectiveness, maybe. Or love in its purest form.
“The Oklahoma facility,” I whisper. “Those children, what was done to them—”
“Will never happen to ours.” His voice carries absolute conviction. “I’ll burn down every facility, eliminate every operative, hunt every one involved in Project Architect to the ends of the earth before I let anyone touch our child.”
“And if they come for us? The people rebuilding Project Architect?”
“Then they’ll learn why I was their most effective Hunter.” His eyes harden. “They made me into a weapon. Now I’ll use those skills to protect what matters.”
I lean into his touch, letting his certainty anchor me. “I’m terrified, Nik.”
“Good. Fear keeps you alert. Keeps you careful.” His other hand settles over my still-flat stomach. “But don’t let it paralyze you. My brothers and I survived everything they threw at us—captivity, conditioning, the hunt. You survived your stepfather. We can survive this too.”
“This is different. It’s not just us anymore.”
“No, it’s not.” His smile is soft, transformative. “It’s better.”
The panic recedes slightly, replaced by hope, or the beginning of it. “You really want this?”
“More than I’ve ever wanted anything.” He kisses my forehead, lingering. “You’re carrying our baby. The most perfect thing I could ever have imagined.”
I close my eyes, letting myself picture it—a child with his pale eyes and my stubborn chin. Teaching them to fight but also to love. Showing them the world’s darkness but also its light.
“What if I can’t love it enough? What if the trauma—”
“You’ll love our baby, the way you love me.” His voice carries no doubt, no hesitation. “We’ll get help if we need it. Professional counseling, whatever it takes. But I’ve seen you with those children we rescued. You have so much love in you, Jenna. More than enough.”
“Our baby,” I whisper.
“Our baby.” He helps me to my feet, steadying me when my knees threaten to buckle. “Are you okay? Do you need—”
“Just you.” I lean into him, letting his strength support me. “I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me that no matter what happens—if Project Architect comes for us, if the past catches up—you’ll protect the baby first. Before me, before yourself. Our child comes first.”
His jaw tightens, the predator in him rebelling against the idea of sacrificing me. But after a long moment, he nods. “I promise.”
Relief floods through me, washing away the last of the panic. We can do this. We’re not normal, will never be normal, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe our brand of broken can raise a child who’s stronger for having seen the darkness and chosen the light anyway.
“I love you,” I tell him, meaning it with every damaged piece of my soul.
“I love you too.” He kisses me softly. “Both of you.”
When we break apart, his eyes are bright with unshed tears. The sight of this deadly, controlled man undone by the simple fact of our baby’s existence makes warmth unfurl in my chest.
We’re going to be parents. Terrifying, broken, violent parents who will love this baby with a fierce protectiveness born from our own lack of protection.
And maybe that’s enough.