Page 171 of No Good Fight

“Mrs. Vance.”

“A child should know how to protect themselves.”

I stare at her for a second, trying to decide whether there is any safe way to respond to that. “Eventually, yes. We can probably let them master things like holding their own head up first.”

She ignores the sarcasm completely. “They should know how to spot trouble too. People teach children to be polite, then act surprised when they don’t trust themselves around someone who makes them uncomfortable.”

That takes a little of the humor out of me.

My fingers move toward my stomach before I think about doing it, resting lightly against the front of my shirt. There is nothing there to feel yet, but the idea of this tiny person eventually moving through the world with all the dangers I know exist makes my chest tighten.

“That part I can get behind,” I admit. “I’d like them to know they’re allowed to trust themselves.”

Mrs. Vance nods once, satisfied that I have finally started seeing reason. “Exactly. And they should know how to throw a proper punch.”

I close my eyes.

There it is.

“When they’re older.”

“Of course when they’re older.” Her tone suggests she thinks I’m ridiculous for assuming otherwise. “I’m not teaching a toddler how to fight, Alexandra.”

I open my eyes again. “The fact that you felt the need to clarify that does not reassure me.”

She reaches for the remaining half of her muffin and tears off another piece, entirely unconcerned by my distrust. “You worry too much.”

“I live with Ryder. One of us has to maintain a healthy amount of skepticism otherwise we’ll be living in a survival bunker before the year is out.”

That earns a quiet laugh from her, and for a few seconds I watch her pick crumbs from the paper while the enormity of what we’re talking about tries to catch up with me again.

A baby.

Mine and Ryder’s.

Someone who will know Mrs. Vance as the terrifying older woman who carries emergency supplies in her purse and believes personal safety education should probably begin before kindergarten. Someone who might grow up in this kitchen, steal muffins from this table, leave fingerprints on the windows Ryder keeps obsessively clean, and learn exactly how many people are willing to show up when they need them.

The thought makes my eyes burn again.

Mrs. Vance notices, but this time she doesn’t call attention to it. She simply reaches across the table and gives my hand another quick squeeze before letting go.

“That little one is going to have plenty of people looking out for them,” she says, her voice softer now. Then the familiar mischief creeps back into her expression. “I’ll just make sure I’m the one who teaches them how to be a badass like their mother.”

A sound comes from behind me, quiet enough that I might have missed it if the kitchen weren’t otherwise still. The faint scrape of a shoe catching the edge of the doorway.

My hand freezes against my stomach.

Mrs. Vance’s eyes lift past my shoulder, and the change in her expression tells me everything before I turn.

I already know who’s standing there.

Ryder stands in the mudroom entrance with one hand resting against the frame. I have no idea how long he’s been there, but the color has gone out of his face, and his attention is fixed on me.

More specifically, on the hand that found its way back to my stomach.

For once, Ryder doesn’t move toward me.

He doesn’t ask three questions or scan the room or start trying to solve anything. He just stands there while I feel my heartbeat climb into my throat.