Chapter 43
JENNA
The nausea hits me like a freight train as I sit at the massive dining table on Infinity’s sixth floor, surrounded by eight of the most dangerous men I’ve ever known arguing about who burned the garlic bread.
“I told you to set a timer,” Darius snaps at Damon, who’s examining the blackened edges.
“I don’t need a timer. I can smell when things are ready.”
“Current evidence to the contrary.”
One month pregnant, and everything smells like death or makes me want to vomit. I press my palm against my still-flat stomach and try to breathe through another wave of queasiness.
“You look green,” Marcus observes from across the table. “Morning sickness?”
“All-day sickness,” I correct, accepting the glass of water Raphael slides toward me without being asked. “Though it’s better than last week.”
“The first trimester’s rough,” Theon says absently, not looking up from whatever he’s sketching on his napkin. “Your hormones are recalibrating everything. Should level out around week twelve.”
Everyone stares at him.
“What? I synthesize fertility drugs. I know the biology,” he says.
Lucien snorts. “Only you would make pregnancy sound like a chemistry experiment.”
I watch them bicker and laugh, these men who were tortured as children but somehow found their way back to humanity through each other. They argue over who’s doing dishes like normal people, not like survivors of a government program designed to turn children into weapons.
Nikolai appears at my shoulder, pressing a kiss to my temple. “How are you feeling?”
“Watching your brothers fight over burnt bread is strangely comforting.”
His smile is soft, unguarded in a way I rarely see outside our private moments. “They always get worse during family dinner. Something about being off duty makes them regress.”
“I heard that,” Dominic calls from where he’s helping Raphael plate the roast. “We’re not regressing. We’re relaxing.”
“Same thing with you,” Ezra mutters, not looking up from his phone.
This is their sanctuary. The one place where The Architects can just be nine traumatized men who’ve built something beautiful out of the wreckage of their childhoods.
I found it a little ironic that they named their group after the program that made them, but it fits.
And right now, they’ve got no masks, no operational protocols, no targets to eliminate.
Just a family dinner and casual intimacy that comes from trusting people with your life.
“Help me understand something,” I say as Nikolai takes his seat beside me. “How did you decide to do this? The family dinners, the way you all live together when you’re not working.”
“Raphael’s idea,” Damon says, settling plates in front of us with surprising domesticity. “About three years after we escaped.”
“We were all living separately,” Raphael explains, taking his place at the head of the table. “Trying to be normal, I guess. But normal didn’t work for us.”
“We kept ending up together anyway,” Marcus adds. “Easier to just accept that while we’re dysfunctional apart, we’re a more functional unit together.”
“Speak for yourself,” Darius grins. “I’m perfectly functional.”
The collective snort around the table suggests otherwise.
“What he means,” Lucien says dryly, “is that we tried being alone. Turns out we’re better at being whatever this is.”
“Family,” I say quietly. “This is family.”
The table goes momentarily quiet. These men who’ve killed hundreds of people between them, who’ve built a criminal empire on violence and fear, look almost shy at the word.
“Yeah,” Nikolai says finally. “Family.”
As if summoned by the sentiment, Ezra’s phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. The sharp, insistent sound that means business rather than personal.
I watch his expression change as he reads—the softness leaving his features, replaced by the cold analytical focus I recognize from operational briefings. The transformation happens in the blink of an eye.
“Nik.”
One word, but it cuts through the dinner conversation like a blade. Everyone stops eating, stops talking, stops breathing.
“Another facility?” Nikolai asks, and his voice has changed too. Gone is the man who just kissed my temple. This is The Hunter.
“Virginia. Richmond outskirts.” Ezra’s fingers fly over his tablet, pulling up data feeds, satellite imagery, financial records. “Initial sweep suggests forty to fifty subjects. Ages unknown, but the facility configuration suggests younger.”
My stomach clenches, and not from morning sickness.
“How many personnel?” Damon’s voice is flat, professional.
“Eighteen to twenty-five. Standard security complement plus medical staff.”
“Extraction windows?” Lucien asks.
“Multiple. But the longer we wait, the more subjects we lose.”
I watch them work—nine minds synchronizing around a single objective with frightening efficiency. They don’t need to discuss whether they’ll go. The only questions are logistics and timing.
“What’s the earliest we can be operational?” Nikolai asks.
“Twelve hours if we push,” Marcus says. “Six if we go minimal equipment.”
“This one’s different,” Ezra continues, swiping through intelligence reports. “Pharmaceutical signatures don’t match Project Architect protocols. The conditioning methodology is evolving—more sophisticated, more targeted.”
“Someone learned from our hits,” Dominic says grimly. “Adapted their approach.”
Fifty children. Maybe more. Being broken and rebuilt according to specifications I can’t even imagine, while I sit here complaining about morning sickness.
Nikolai looks at me, and I see the war in his expression. He promised to step back from field operations. Promised to prioritize our safety, our growing family. But those children…
“You have to go,” I say quietly.
“Jenna—”
“You have to go.” My voice is steady, certain. “All of you.”
“I’m not leaving you.” His hand finds mine under the table. “Not now. Not with—”
“With what? Me being one month pregnant and perfectly capable of taking care of myself?” I squeeze his fingers. “Those children need you more than I do right now.”
“What if something happens—”
“Then I’ll drive myself to the hospital.” I meet his eyes. “But you can’t save them from here.”
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken truths. These men were those children once. Alone, terrified, convinced no one was coming to save them. They survived by turning themselves into weapons, but they remember what it felt like to need rescue.
“She’s right,” Raphael says quietly. “This is why we exist.”
“The numbers don’t lie,” Ezra adds. “Every day we delay, the statistical probability of successful extraction drops.”
“I hate it when he’s right,” Marcus mutters.
“I’m always right about statistics,” Ezra replies mildly.
Despite everything, I almost smile. Even facing another child trafficking ring, they can’t help but be themselves.
“How long?” I ask.
“Forty-eight to seventy-two hours,” Nikolai says. “Depends on complications.”
“Then go. Save them.”
I watch the final transformation unfold—family dinner dissolving into an operational briefing as they start discussing equipment loads, extraction routes, and personnel assignments.
Raphael clears plates while Damon pulls up building schematics.
Marcus tests communication frequencies while Lucien inventories weapons.
They’ll be gone by midnight. Nine ghosts will descend on another facility where children are being tortured, bringing death to the monsters and freedom to their survivors.
This is who they are. Who Nikolai is. Not just the Hunter who took me, but the man who uses his damage to protect the innocent.
And I’m proud to be part of it.
“Stay in our room here at Infinity,” Nikolai says, pulling me aside as the others gear up. “Theon’s leaving medical supplies and monitoring equipment. If anything feels wrong—”
“I’ll call. I promise.”
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. “I love you. Both of you.”
“We love you too. Come home to us.”
As I watch them disappear into the Chicago night, I rest my hand on my stomach and whisper a prayer to whatever gods protect broken men who choose to become heroes.
Fifty more children are about to learn either that hope isn’t lost after all.