Chapter 13 Sage #2
I eat half the toast, more to convince my body to cooperate than because I’m hungry. Then I thank Anya and make my way down the corridor she indicated. At the far end, glass doors wait, framed by tall plants I don’t know the names of. Moist, earthy air seeps under the gap at the bottom.
I push the handle and step inside. The conservatory feels like another world.
Glass walls and a vaulted ceiling reveal a slice of Seattle sky, thick with clouds.
Rows of plants crowd the space, leaves glossy and damp, flowers opening in bursts of color that stand out against all the gray.
The air is warmer here, carrying the scent of soil and a soft floral trace.
Luka stands near the far wall, next to a long table lined with smaller pots and gardening tools.
He wears a dark sweater and slacks, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. A faint smear of soil marks one wrist. He’s looking at something on his phone, his brow furrowed with the familiar tension in his shoulders, making him look taller and broader, like he could block the whole world if he needed to.
I pause for a breath I hope he can’t hear, then I walk toward him. My footsteps are soft on the stone floor. Vega lifts his head from where he rests beside a large planter and spots me first. His tail thumps, and that small welcome loosens the tension cinched in my chest.
Luka looks up at the sound and his eyes find mine. For a heartbeat, everything slows. There is a brush of concern there, then relief, and then an emotion he doesn’t quite hide.
“Sage,” he greets, his voice low.
“Hi,” I reply, my fingers twisting together before I force them to relax. “Anya said you were here.”
He sets his phone face down on the table and steps closer. His eyes travel over my face like he’s looking for damage. His hand rises, and he brushes an invisible strand of hair from my cheek, his knuckles grazing my skin.
“You look tired,” he observes. “Did you sleep at all?”
“A little,” I answer. My throat tightens around the rest of what I need to say. I swallow and give myself nowhere else to run. “I had a dream about my father. About Thomas.”
Something in his expression softens. He takes a half step back, giving me space without leaving me feeling abandoned.
“After what you heard last night, that is not surprising,” he remarks. “I should have kept my father away from that conversation.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say softly. “He’s the one who spoke and I’m the one who listened.”
He watches me quietly, waiting. The clouds overhead dull the light, but I can still see the tiny flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. Vega inches closer and rests his head against my leg, as if he senses my nerves.
“My mother never talked about him,” I continue. “About what he did before he left. I always thought it hurt too much. Now I think she was trying to protect us from what he really was. From what he chose.”
Luka’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking near his temple. “Thomas was an asset to the organization for a long time,” he explains slowly. “But he made decisions that put a lot of people at risk. My father has his own way of dealing with betrayal.”
“I know,” I reply, the words hitting deeper than I expected. “I heard him.”
Silence wraps around us, filled only by the faint patter of rain against glass and the hum of some distant heater. My fingers find the edge of a nearby pot, feeling the rough clay, offering a small point of balance.
“I’m angry,” I admit. “At both of them. At my father for leaving us and working with your family. And at your father for what came after. But I’m also tired of letting things be decided around me while I stand there pretending I don’t see them.”
Luka’s gaze intensifies. “What are you trying to tell me, printsessa?” he asks softly.
The endearment slides under my skin, warm and familiar. I look down at my hands, then at his, then finally back up at his face. If I hesitate now, I’ll lose my courage.
“I took a test,” I confess. My voice comes out softer than I want, so I clear my throat and try again. “Two tests, actually.”
His brows draw together, confusion blooming, then his eyes widen. I can almost see the realization moving through him, piece by piece. The nausea. The fatigue. The way I have been clutching my stomach without meaning to.
“Sage,” he breathes, the word shaped like a question and realization at the same time.
“I’m pregnant,” I tell him. “You’re going to be a father.”
Luka freezes, and every fear I have tried to bury claws its way up. That he will pull away. That he will see me as a complication. That he will treat this baby like another part of his strategy, not a life.
Then everything changes. His breath leaves his chest on a rough exhale. He crosses the space between us in two long steps and cups my face in his hands, his palms warm against my skin. His thumbs brush along my cheekbones, and I realize my eyes have started to sting.
“How long have you known?” he asks, his voice hushed.
“A few days,” I answer. “I wanted to tell you. I just…”
I trail off, frustration coiling in my throat. How do I explain the mess of fear, loyalty, and secrets that has been tying me in knots since Ray first threatened Hope?
“I was scared,” I admit finally. “Of adding more pressure and putting a target on the baby, too. Ray already has so much power over us. I didn’t know how you would react. I didn’t even know how I felt.”
He drops one hand from my face and places it gently over my stomach. The touch is careful, but there is nothing uncertain in the way his fingers spread across the fabric.
“You should never have had to carry that alone,” he voices. His eyes meet mine again, dark with something fierce. “You will never have to hide anything from me again. I will always protect you. You and the baby belong to me, printsessa.”
The words wrap around me like a shield. Possessive, yes, but also comforting. For once, the idea of belonging doesn’t feel like chains. It feels like a promise.
A small, shaky laugh escapes me, mixed with a sob I try to swallow down. “That’s a lot to promise,” I manage.
“I know what it means,” he responds without hesitation.
“I understand what it asks of me. Of us.” His hand at my stomach presses a little more firmly, not enough to hurt, just enough that I feel the reality of it.
“I will adjust everything. Security. Plans. I will not let anything touch you or our child.”
The phrase “our child” sends a strange heat through my chest. Terrifying and incredible at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “For not telling you sooner. For all the ways this has already gone wrong. For the USB, for Ray, for everything.”
His mouth tightens. “You were trying to save your sister while the ground kept moving under your feet,” he replies. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I kept things from you,” I remind him.
“And I kept things from you,” he returns.
“My father. The deeper parts of this life. Apologies are not something I am used to giving, but you deserve one.” He draws a breath, his shoulders lifting and lowering.
“I am sorry for the hurt the Bratva caused you. For what my father did. For what my family did to yours. For what your father did to you. If I could pull you out of this world and erase all of it, I would.”
The sincerity in his voice leaves me a little shaken. My fingers wrap around his wrist, where it rests at my stomach, holding him there, needing the contact.
“We can’t erase it,” I answer. “All we can do is try not to repeat their mistakes.”
His gaze softens at that. Something like pride flickers there, quiet but real. “We will do better,” he agrees. “For you. For this child. And for Hope, when we bring her home.”
It’s the first time today he’s spoken about Hope like it’s an absolute. I cling to it.
Movement at the doorway draws my attention. I glance over Luka’s shoulder and see Anya standing just inside the conservatory, a small watering can in one hand. Her eyes are wet and shining, her mouth curved into a smile that trembles at the edges.
“I did not mean to intrude,” she assures us. “I came for the ferns. I heard enough.”
My face heats. Luka doesn’t pull away from me, but his hand shifts to my hip.
Anya steps closer and sets the watering can on the floor beside a row of leafy plants. She reaches for me with both hands, taking mine in hers. Her fingers feel cool and firm.
“I am very happy for you,” she tells us, looking between my face and Luka’s. “For both of you. This house has needed new life for a long time. It has needed you, Sage.”
Her words make the knot in my chest ease. I don’t know how to respond, so I squeeze her hands instead. She blinks away tears and gives Luka a look that is equal parts warning and affection.
“You protect them,” she instructs him. “Both of them. Or you will answer to me.”
A low, surprised sound that might be a laugh escapes him. “Understood,” he replies.
The moment settles around us like a fragile glass dome, filled with hope yet delicate. For now, the outside world feels far away. No Ray. No Isaak. No threats.
But it doesn’t last. The rest of the day unspools in a blur of small adjustments.
Security meetings happen somewhere deeper in the house.
Phone calls. Quiet discussions I only hear pieces of when I pass by open doors.
At dinner, the table feels too big. Isaak sits at the head, Luka on his right, and I on Luka’s other side.
Staff move in and out with platters and dishes.
Isaak’s gaze lands on me more than once. His eyes dip to my flat stomach and return to my face. He lifts his wineglass at one point, a faint smile touching his mouth, and offers a toast to “new beginnings.” The words leave a strange taste in my mouth.
After the plates are cleared and the tension in my shoulders has settled into a dull ache, Isaak pushes back from the table and wipes his mouth with his napkin. He looks almost relaxed.