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Jessie is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentler. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t try to deny it. “Yes.”
“How much?”
I think about the past few nights, about the way Nikandr holds me when the nightmares came, the careful tenderness in his touch, and the way he listens when I talk about my fears for our child. I think about the way my chest tightens when he’s gone for too long, and the relief that floods through me when he returns safely. “More than I should,” I whisper.
Jessie sounds gentle when she asks, “And how does he feel about you?”
That’s the question I’ve been avoiding, even in my own thoughts, because I don’t know. He wants me, that much is obvious. He’s protective of me and the baby but want and protection aren’t the same thing as love, and I’m not naive enough to think they are. “He cares about the baby, and I think he feels responsible for me because of that.”
“But?”
“I don’t know if he sees me as anything more than the woman carrying his child.” The words hurt to say out loud, but they need to be said. “Still, maybe that’s enough. Maybe it has to be.”
Jessie makes a sound of frustration. “Sabrina, you deserve more than being someone’s obligation.”
“Do I?” The question comes out sharper than I intended. “I’m pregnant with a man’s child after spending four days with him. I work at a nightclub and live in a studio apartment with furniture from yard sales. Six months ago, I was drowning in medical debtand working two jobs just to keep the lights on. What exactly do I deserve?”
She still sounds stern but tender. “You deserve to be loved for who you are, not just for what you can give someone else.”
Her words make tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “Maybe love is a luxury I can’t afford right now.”
“Love isn’t a luxury, Brina. It’s a necessity, especially when you’re bringing a child into the world.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. Jessie sighs, and when she speaks again, there’s a strange mixture of resignation and hope in her voice. “I can hear it, you know. When you talk about him.”
“Hear what?”
“The way your voice changes. Gets softer. Like maybe you’re falling for him despite all the very good reasons you shouldn’t be.”
I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat because she’s right. There is something blooming to life when I think about Nikandr, something warm and dangerous and completely terrifying. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of something that could turn into love if I’m not careful.
“I don’t trust it,” I say honestly. “The feelings, I mean. How can I know if what I’m feeling is real, or if it’s just gratitude mixed with pregnancy hormones and the trauma of everything that’s happened?”
“You probably can’t know for sure yet, but that doesn’t mean you should ignore it entirely.”
I’m surprised by that advice. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, hold space for the possibility of something good. Of peace, happiness, and love, but never stop protecting yourself.” Her voice takes on the fierce protectiveness I’ve known since we were in college. “Promise me you won’t lose yourself in this, Sabrina. Promise me you’ll remember who you are underneath all of this.”
“I promise.”
“Also promise me you’ll call if things go bad. If you need an exit strategy, if you need help, if you need anything at all, you call me. I don’t care how dangerous his world is. I’ll find a way to get to you.”
The loyalty in her voice makes my chest ache with gratitude. “I promise that too.”
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of my room and think about everything she said about love and protection and the difference between the two. I contemplate the hope I’m trying not to feel and the fear I can’t quite ignore.
I think about Nikandr and the way he looked at me this morning when he brought me coffee in bed, like I was something precious he was afraid of breaking. He talks about our baby with a mixture of wonder and protectiveness that makes my heart skip beats.
Maybe Jessie’s right. Maybe there is something real building between us that goes beyond shared responsibility and physical attraction. Or maybe I’m just a pregnant woman clinging to romantic fantasies because the alternative—raising a child with someone who sees me as nothing more than a convenient vessel—is too depressing to contemplate.
Either way, I won’t know for sure until I stop being afraid to find out.
The next day,I work up the courage to ask Maksim about having Jessie visit for lunch. I find him in the kitchen, going over some kind of security schedule with two other men I don’t recognize. When he sees me, he dismisses them with a nod and turns his attention to me.
“What can I do for you, Miss Clyde?”