33. Elena
Elena
Cormac’s hand is warm over mine, the baby pressing against us both. We sit on the edge of the bed, bodies close, the apartment quiet around us. The world has narrowed to the curve of his jaw, the line of his shoulders, the certainty in his eyes.
I lean forward, and he tilts his head slightly. The first kiss is slow, deliberate, testing, soft. My pulse hammers, every nerve alive. His lips move against mine with familiarity, knowing exactly how to draw out pleasure without any rush, without any excess.
I can feel him against me, impossibly steady. My hands move to his chest, pressing, needing contact, finding solidity. He responds with that same controlled certainty, his fingers brushing over my back, tracing lines that make my body tense and release at once.
“Cormac,” I whisper, breathless, teeth grazing his lower lip.
My fingers curl against his shirt. He murmurs something against my mouth, impossible to decipher fully. Nonetheless, my knees weaken. I lean closer, brushing my cheek against his, tasting the faint spice of him, the faint edge of cologne. He deepens the kiss, more deliberate in each motion.
My heart thunders in my chest. I feel the life inside me respond, small but insistent, and a wave of protection surges alongside desire.
He pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against mine. “You are entirely mine,” he murmurs. “As is this child.”
I press into him, almost trembling. “Yes,” I whisper. Yes, yes, yes. I feel it, in my bones, in my pulse. In the way my body recognizes him as the center of everything I can’t, and don’t want to, escape.
Ring, ring…
A light trill interrupts us.
Ring, ring…
The phone on the bedside table.
Ring, ring…
“Fuck,” Cormac murmurs. He picks it up. I linger near the doorway, unsure if I should stay or retreat.
“Liam,” Cormac says.
My stomach tightens. I know, and he knows. He knows exactly what this call is about.
A pause. Then Cormac’s voice, low and measured as ever. I catch fragments. My name. My condition. The word “pregnant,” sharp, dissonant, slicing through the fog of my thoughts.
I step closer, almost against instinct. My hands curl over my stomach, trembling. Heart hammering.
I hear Liam’s voice, familiar but threaded with fury and disbelief. “Elena, what the hell…?”
Cormac answers without flinching. Words clipped, deliberate. “She is a program participant. Fully informed. All actions disclosed. Consent documented. No ambiguity.”
I can feel the weight in the air even from the other room. Cormac’s tone doesn’t waver. There is no heat, no panic, no hesitation.
Liam responds, his voice rising: “This is… unconscionable. You can’t… she’s being manipulated…”
Cormac’s voice doesn’t rise. He replies, slicing through Liam’s anger like a scalpel. “She understands. She chooses. You are not a variable in this scenario. Your perception does not alter consent or reality.”
I press myself against the wall, fingers tracing the edges of the doorway, trying to steady my breathing. My pulse is pounding, each beat louder than the last. Liam knows. His friend Fiona, she saw me with Cormac.
I hear Liam’s frustration escalate, and he rattles off clipped words I can’t piece together. Sharp bursts. Demands. Threats, maybe. Cormac handles every syllable with surgical precision.
“I cannot allow that. She remains under program care. All interactions are mediated. Any contact will be monitored.”
Time stretches. I can feel every shift in the room, every subtle vibration of tension through the floorboards, the walls. My body is rigid, poised for something I cannot stop. Liam’s voice rises again, heated and raw, and then stops.
An abrupt inhale from Cormac. Then silence. The phone clicks. Cormac hangs up, placing the phone gently on the counter. His hands rest there, steady, controlled. Not a tremor. Not a hesitation. Just pure authority without spectacle.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My knees weaken slightly.
“Liam is coming,” he says. Not a warning. A statement. Immutable.
I swallow. My chest is tight. My stomach clenches. Fear claws at me, rising sharp and immediate.
“He knows about me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” One word. As deliberate as the strike of a metronome.
I press my hand against my stomach. The baby shifts, the movement tiny, insistent, grounding. My pulse is still hammering, adrenaline thrumming in every limb.
“He’s angry,” I breathe.
Cormac nods slightly. “Of course he is. That is expected.”
I pace the floor, trying to anchor myself in something solid. My brain races, imagining every confrontation, every possible scenario. My hand flies to the phone, half wanting to call Liam, half knowing I cannot. Half terrified of what would happen if I did.
Cormac observes, silent. His ever-calm presence alone slows my heartbeat. I glance at him. He does not move. His hand rests lightly on the edge of the counter, thumb tracing the line as though measuring distance, calculating angles.
“Will he see me?” I whisper.
“No,” Cormac says, unwavering. “He will not. I will not allow it.”
I press my forehead to the back of a chair. Relief and terror twist inside me, impossible to separate. “You didn’t want me to talk to him?”
“No,” he repeats.
“Why?” My voice cracks with frustration and disbelief.
“Because you are mine . Not his. And I will not risk you changing your mind,” he says, each word landing heavy. Protective. Claiming.
I stiffen, anger flaring immediately. And then… relief. The heat of it spreads through my chest, slow, steady. I would not have left; could not have. And yet, knowing that he didn’t let Liam even try… the weight of that knowledge is staggering.
“I wouldn’t have gone,” I murmur, trembling slightly. “I wouldn’t have left.”
“I know,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I couldn’t risk it.”
My fingers trace the swell of my belly again. The baby moves beneath my touch, small, insistent. The reality of life, proof of choice, proof of Cormac’s control, floods through me. Relief curls around my chest, warm and grounding.
“I still accept it,” I whisper. “I’m staying.”
Cormac doesn’t respond immediately. The baby stirs again. The apartment is quiet, weighted with anticipation, with his unspoken authority. Finally, he moves toward me, hand brushing mine across the curve of my belly.
“Good,” he says quietly. “You are safe. Both of you. I will make sure of it.” He steps back, his hand slipping from mine. “Stay here. I will handle this.”
I want to protest. I want to follow. I want to hide. My stomach clenches. The baby shifts sharply in my belly, reminding me of everything at stake.
He doesn’t wait for me. The door closes with a deliberate click, and I’m left in the apartment, the air suddenly too quiet, the space too large.
My pulse races, my breath catches. I pace, hands pressed against my belly, trying to ground myself, trying to remind myself that I am safe, that Cormac is out there managing this.
But the terror won’t relent. My mind explodes with scenarios: Liam storms the building, shoves past security, finds me, demands answers, takes me.
I can’t stop the images: his face, twisted with anger, the baby’s shape pressed against me.
I press my palms flat against my stomach, imagining Liam reaching for me, my choices stripped away, my carefully calibrated life thrown into chaos.
Minutes stretch like hours. Every sound makes me flinch.
The faint hum of the radiator, the distant scrape of tires on wet pavement, the soft creak of the building settling—all amplified, all threatening.
I imagine shouting voices downstairs, words I cannot hear but can feel like shrapnel against my ribcage.
I can’t process the shapes of the argument, but I feel them, the tension vibrating through the floorboards, rattling the walls, pressing against my chest.
I pace, gripping the edge of the counter.
My stomach twists, nausea rising. The baby kicks, and I press my hand into my abdomen, needing something solid, something alive.
I know I am safe here. I know Cormac controls the perimeter.
Yet fear coils tight around my ribs, sharpening every second, making the apartment feel impossibly small.
Then, a shadow shifts outside the bedroom door. Unhurried footsteps I recognize all too well. My chest tightens further, anticipation and dread tightening into a single cord.
The door opens, and Cormac steps in, calm authority in every movement. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t soften. He doesn’t let me read anything beyond the bare minimum I need to survive the moment.
“He is gone,” he says simply, his voice flat, unshakable.
My legs buckle slightly as relief washes over me, sharp and overwhelming. I press a hand to my belly. The baby stirs. Proof of life. Evidence of choice, of control, of safety.
“What did he say?” My voice cracks, shaking.
Cormac’s eyes hold mine. “He called me unconscionable. Said you were being manipulated. Made a threat.”
My stomach drops. “A threat?”
“Yes.”
I swallow, panic still rising, my mind spinning. “What… what kind of threat?”
“He wanted you to leave with him. Offered an exit.”
Anger flares. How dare Liam decide for me? But beneath it, relief curls warm and heavy around my chest. I would never have left.
“That’s…” I begin.
“Insane, I know,” Cormac says. “Don’t worry, I put him in his place.”
“I’m staying.”
Cormac moves closer. “Good,” he murmurs quietly. “You are safe. Both of you. I will always make sure of it.”
The apartment exhales with us. The impossible tension of the last hour dissolves, replaced by a quiet, unwavering truth: I am safe, and I am staying.
I really am his.