"You canceled your event," he said, moving toward me with that purposeful stride. Not a question but a statement.
"Yes." I uncurled from the sofa, standing to meet him halfway.
"We need to talk."
Something flickered in his expression—wariness, concern, a flash of what might have been fear before his usual control reasserted itself. "I'm listening."
This was it. The moment. No more hiding, no more deflecting, no more half-truths or strategic omissions.
"I'm pregnant," I said, the words emerging with surprising steadiness considering the chaos they'd created inside me all day.
For a moment, Lucas went completely still, his expression unreadable.
Then, very deliberately, he closed the distance between us, one hand coming to rest at the small of my back, the other lifting to my face.
"Say that again," he commanded softly, eyes never leaving mine.
"I'm pregnant." My voice trembled slightly this time.
"About six weeks, I think."
Something transformed in his expression then—control giving way to an emotion so raw, so unguarded, it took my breath away.
His hand moved from my back to my stomach, spreading wide across the flat plane as if he could feel the microscopic changes already happening beneath.
"Mine," he said, the word emerging rough, possessive, almost primitive in its simplicity.
"Yes," I confirmed, watching his reaction carefully, trying to read past the initial response to what lay beneath.
"Yours. Ours."
His gaze returned to my face, searching, assessing. "
You're afraid," he observed, missing nothing as always.
"Terrified," I admitted, the honesty costing less than I'd expected.
"This changes everything, Lucas."
"Yes," he agreed, his hand still splayed protectively across my abdomen. "It does."
I waited for more—for the calculations, the strategies, the careful plans he would undoubtedly begin formulating immediately.
Instead, he pulled me against him, arms encircling me with unexpected gentleness.
"Good," he whispered against my hair, the single syllable vibrating through me.
"Now you'll never leave."
The statement—so possessive, so sure, so quintessentially Lucas—should have triggered alarm bells. It should have confirmed my fears about control and independence and all the complications we'd navigated these past months.
Instead, I heard what lay beneath the surface, what he wasn't quite saying but meant with every fiber of his being:I want this. I want you. I want us. Permanently, irrevocably, completely.
"Is that what you're afraid of?" I asked, pulling back slightly to see his face. "That I'd leave?"
Something vulnerable flashed in his eyes—a rare glimpse beneath the controlled exterior he presented to the world.
"Everyone leaves, Savannah. My mother. Catherine. Every significant connection I've ever formed."
