"I know." She reaches for my hand. "I know, Lev. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry the timing is terrible. I'm sorry this triggers your trauma. I'm sorry for all of it."
"Don't apologize for being pregnant with my child." The words come out rougher than intended. "This isn't your fault. It's just... complicated. With Patrick still out there. With everything so fragile between us. With my track record of catastrophic failure when it comes to protecting the people I love."
"You didn't fail." She says it fiercely. "Patrick killed them. Not you. Patrick pulled those triggers. Patrick made those choices. You were handling business that needed handling. You couldn't have known."
"I should have."
"You're not psychic. You're just a man doing his best in an impossible situation." She shifts closer. "And you've kept Mila safe for five years. You've protected her. Loved her. Given her everything she needed despite your own pain. That's not failure, Lev. That's success."
I want to believe her. Want to accept that maybe I'm not doomed to repeat history.
But the fear won't let go.
"If anything happens to you—" I can't finish the sentence. "If Patrick gets to you or the baby, I won't survive it. Can't. Won't. It'll destroy me completely."
"Then we make sure he doesn't get to us." She takes my hand and places it on her stomach. Flat still. No sign of the life growing there. "We're here. We're real. We need you to be strong enough to protect us."
I feel nothing under my palm. Too early for movement. Too early for evidence beyond test results and morning sickness.
But it's there. Our child. Growing. Becoming.
"I don't know if I can do this," I admit. Brutal honesty. "Don't know if I'm strong enough. Brave enough. Good enough."
"You are." She covers my hand with hers. "You're Lev Volkov. You survive impossible things. You build empires from blood. You protect what's yours with everything you have. And we're yours now. Me and Mila and this baby. Your family. Your responsibility. Your reason to win."
The words settle over me like a vow.
My family. My responsibility. My reason.
I look at her. Really look. See the fear in her eyes that matches my own. See the hope underneath. See the woman who chose me over her own safety, who protected my daughter with her life, who's carrying our child despite knowing how dangerous this world is.
"Okay." The word comes out quiet but firm. "We'll do this. Together."
Relief crashes across her face. "Really?"
"Really." I pull her closer. "But first, we end Patrick. Permanently. I will not bring a child into this world while that man breathes. Will not risk you or the baby while he's out there planning revenge."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But Mikhail's right. We accelerate the timeline. Hunt him down. Make him come to us if we have to. Whatever it takes." I tilt her face up and kiss her.
She kisses me back. Desperate and relieved, and still terrified, but hopeful, too.
I kiss her back with the same intensity. Pouring everything I can't say into the contact. The fear, hope, and love tangled together.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers. "I'm still scared. Probably will be scared every day until you're holding a healthy baby and Patrick is dead and buried."
"I'm scared too. But we'll figure it out together."
"Together." I stroke her hair. "You and me and Mila and this baby. Our family. Broken and rebuilt wrong, but still ours."
"Still ours." She echoes.
We lie down together. Fully clothed. Just holding each other while dawn light fills the room.
I think about the future. About Valerie pregnant. About a baby in my arms. About Mila as a big sister. About building something good from all the wreckage.
And for the first time since she told me, I let myself feel something other than terror.
