Chapter 10 The Nursery
The nursery smelled of paint, cedar, and old paper.
Vesper stood in the doorway, surveying the room she had spent three months creating. Her illustrations covered the walls: botanical prints, orchids, roses, and wildflowers from the estate grounds. She drew each one from life and framed them in simple oak. Cillian cut and stained the frames himself.
He learned woodworking. In the months since they returned from the facility, he converted the cottage's second bedroom into a nursery.
He built the crib, the changing table, and the shelves.
These shelves held her sketchbooks, his highlighted pregnancy books, and the small stack of children's books Karen sent.
The crib was simple, made of dark wood with clean lines. He carved something into the headboard. She found him one night, hunched over the wood with a chisel, focused. She asked what he carved, but he covered it with his hand. He said she would see when it was done.
Now, she saw it. Two birds nestled together, surrounded by branches, leaves, and flowers. Lark and Wren, their names, were etched in wood.
She traced the carving with her finger. He had a scar on his chest and two birds facing each other, beaks touching. She remembered the first night in the east wing. He had a scar on his chest and a storm. He touched her like she was sacred. He said "mine," and she said "yours" and meant it.
That was fourteen months ago. Fourteen months since the breeding month. Twelve months since the pregnancy test. Ten months since Lark was born. Six months since they married in the NICU.
Six months. Now, they had the cottage, the nursery, and this life.
Lark slept in the crib, six months old. She was still small for her age. Prematurity had set her back, and she caught up slowly, ounce by ounce. Dr. Marsh monitored her weekly, then monthly, and now every three months.
"She's thriving," Dr. Marsh said at the last visit. "The genetic markers are functioning as the research predicted. "Cellular resilience. Enhanced repair. She's ahead of her adjusted age in motor skills. She's perfect."
Perfect. Vesper never expected to hear that word about her child. Doctors said she would never have a child. A dead woman's will created this child. This child survived a kidnapping, a premature birth, and three months in the NICU.
Lark Thorne. Named for the bird that sings at dawn. Cillian chose the name. He heard a lark outside the cottage window the morning after they brought her home. It was the first morning they spent together in their bed, in their home. He said her name, and Vesper knew it was the right one.
She watched Lark sleep. Her chest rose and fell. No monitors, no tubes, no machines. Just breathing. Just living. Tiny fists curled against the blanket. Dark hair, Cillian's hair. Green eyes, Cillian's eyes. A stubborn jaw, like both of them.
She drew Lark daily, just as she had in the NICU. Now she drew from life, not imagination. Sketches filled the nursery walls: Lark sleeping and eating and her tiny hands and feet. Lark's face changed week by week, month by month, growing and becoming.
The wall illustrations weren't all Lark. Some were older drawings: the orchids from the first night, garden roses, the cottage itself, the ocean, and the cliffs. She had even drawn the estate as she first saw it, heavy, gray, and full of secrets.
She surveyed the room, her work, and her art. The estate was what she came to Maine to protect—the career she built, the talent her mother nurtured. This skill carried her through grief, surgery, diagnosis, and loss.
Now it covered her daughter's nursery walls, beautiful and permanent and a gift.
She heard Cillian downstairs in the kitchen, cooking.
He still prepared every meal, still controlled nutrition, and still tracked everything.
But he was softer now, less military, and more loving.
He'd made her breakfast every morning for a year: eggs, toast, and tea.
Prenatal vitamins replaced wheatgrass, and then nothing.
Her body was hers again. Their daughter was here. The breeding was done.
Except.
She pressed a hand against her stomach. It was flat now, healed, marked by a C-section scar and old surgeries—a map of battles fought and won.
She wanted another child. She had known it for weeks, maybe months, since Lark started smiling, laughing, and reaching for things. Since the baby became a person—a tiny, fierce, stubborn person who saw the world with Cillian's eyes and Vesper's determination.
She wanted Lark to have a sibling. She wanted the cottage full and the nursery to grow. She wanted to be pregnant again, not because of a contract or a clause, but because she wanted to make another life with the man she loved.
But she hadn't told him. She didn't know how. The last pregnancy was hard. The birth was early. The months in the facility were long. She didn't want to ask him to go through that again.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the third step he always skipped, and then the soft thud of his boots on the floor.
He appeared in the doorway, tall and broad.
His hair was longer now, not military short, and it curled at his collar.
She saw the scar on his chest, the tattoo on his arm, his open, warm face—the face she fell in love with in a Cambridge hallway.
"She's asleep?" he asked.
"Twenty minutes ago."
He crossed the room and looked at the crib, at Lark. His hand went to the railing, his fingers tracing the carving of two birds.
"She rolled over today," he said. "While you were in the garden. She rolled from her back to her stomach. Just flipped, like it was nothing."
"She's a Thorne."
"She's a Wren-Thorne."
Their legal name. They hyphenated. Vesper kept her name. He kept his. Lark received both—a compromise. It was the first of many they would navigate as a married couple, step-siblings, co-parents, and former breeding partners.
He turned, surveying the walls. Her illustrations. His eyes scanned them: orchids, roses, drawings of Lark, the cottage, and the ocean.
"You finished the room," he said.
"I finished the room."
"It's beautiful, Vesper."
"It's ours."
He looked at her. Her green eyes—the ones Lark inherited, the ones that met his across a crowded room five years ago and changed everything.
"Come downstairs," he said. "I made dinner."
"What did you make?"
"Your favorite."
"I don't have a favorite."
"You do. You just don't know it. I've tested recipes for a year. The one you ate three servings of last Tuesday is your favorite.
She laughed. The sound came easily now, natural, without effort or thought. She laughed, he smiled, Lark slept, and the cottage held them.
Dinner was fish, caught that morning. Cillian learned to fish, of course. He read books, watched videos, bought gear, and went out at dawn. He returned with two striped bass and a look of satisfaction that made her want to drag him to bed.
She did. She dragged him to bed while Lark napped and the fish waited in the fridge. She pulled him into the bedroom, stripped him of his clothes, and took him inside her. They made love with the windows open, ocean air on their skin.
That was this afternoon. Now they sat at the kitchen table. Fish. Vegetables from the garden. Wine for her. Water for him. He stopped drinking when she was pregnant and never started again. He said he did not need it. He said she was all the intoxication he required.
She told him that was cheesy. He said he did not care.
They ate. He watched her as he always did—focused, intense. But it was different now. Not possessive or controlling, but attentive and present. Every moment with her was worth his full attention.
"I want to talk to you about something," she said.
He set his fork down, giving her his full attention. Military precision, repurposed. Not a mission briefing, but a marriage.
"I'm listening."
"Lark is six months old."
"I'm aware."
"The NICU was hard. The pregnancy was hard. The birth was hard."
"I remember."
"I want to do it again."
He went still, his hand on the table, his eyes searching her face, processing.
"Again," he said.
"I want another baby. This desire is not driven by a contract or a clause. I want Lark to have a sibling. I want our family to grow. I want to be pregnant with your child again, properly, with love, not contracts."
He remained silent for a long time. She watched his face. The soldier, the father, the husband, worked through his thoughts. She waited.
"You want another baby," he said finally.
"Yes."
"After everything we've been through—the preterm labor, the NICU stay, three months in the facility, and the surgery—do you still want another baby? You want to do that again?"
"I want to try. Dr. Marsh said she would monitor the next pregnancy from the start. No stress. No repeat of what happened with my mother. Controlled. Careful. She said the risk of another premature birth is lower with proper care."
"Lower, not zero."
"Not zero, but not guaranteed. She said my body knows what to do now. The first pregnancy was challenging because of the scarring. Stress worsened it. Without stress, with monitoring and care, she thinks I could carry to term."
"She thinks. She doesn't know."
"She doesn't know, but I know. I know I want another child. Your child. Our child."
He stood and walked to the window. The ocean outside was dark now, with the moon on the water. They'd looked at this same view during the breeding month, in the same cottage, with the same two people.
But everything was different now.
"Vesper," he said, "I have to tell you something."
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
"I've thought about this for weeks. "I've been thinking about this since Lark started laughing, since she reached for me, and since she became a person. "I've thought about giving her a sibling, about making another baby with you, the proper way."
She stared at him. "You've been thinking about it too."