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Love.Despite the lies, despite the violence, despite everything, he loves me. I didn’t misunderstand before.

“But you’re right… I’m not worthy?—”

“Flint.”

His lips quirk up in a smile. “I like hearing you say my name… my real name.”

“You need to rest.” I should really find something more poignant to say, but he’s in pain and needs to heal.

“I know you don’t feel the same… I just… I needed you to know…”

I’m quiet even though I have so many thoughts. Thoughts like I do feel the same. Like I’m having his child. But I hesitate. Because while he loves me, he’s still a man bent on revenge. Then what?

“What happens when your vengeance is served?” I ask.

He’s quiet, and I think he’s fallen asleep until he says, “I do what I was born to do.”

“What is that? Fighting? More of the same to protect your business?—”

“Peace. Family. You don’t believe this, but my parents were good. Good parents.”

“Is that what you want?” It’s hard to imagine Flint thinking about being a father. His talking about it now has me second guessing what I should do about the baby.

His eyes close a final time. I watch Flint's chest rise and fall, each breath seeming like a struggle. The bruises on his face look even worse in the dim light, but at least he's sleeping now. My fingers stay loosely tangled with his, afraid to let go.

How did I get here? A month ago, my biggest concern was chasing down a story about the Keans. Now I'm carrying the child of a man who turned out to be their sworn enemy, watching him fight for his life after being beaten half to death.

I should hate him for lying to me, should run far away from this violent world he's part of. But watching him sleep, vulnerable and broken, all I feel is this overwhelming need to protect him. To stay close. To make sure he keeps breathing.

Love isn't supposed to be this complicated, this frightening. But watching him fight for each breath, I know it's too late to protect my heart. I'm already in too deep.

There's a life growing inside me, a tiny spark of hope in all this darkness. But what kind of life would it be? Every move he makes against the Keans, he risks leaving our child fatherless. Just like his parents left him.

I want him to live. God, I want it more than anything. The thought of losing him makes me hurt in ways I never expected. But loving him means accepting this violent world he inhabits. It means raising our child in the shadow of revenge and blood feuds.

His fingers twitch in mine, and I lean forward, searching his battered face for signs of consciousness. Nothing. Just the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

"You have to survive this," I whisper, pressing my forehead against our joined hands. "Not just for me anymore."

I haven't told him about the baby yet. Haven't had the chance. Now I wonder if I'll ever get to see his face when he learns he's going to be a father. Will he be happy? Terrified? Will he understand why I'm so scared of bringing a child into this life?

I try to imagine a future where we could be happy. Where our child could be safe. But every scenario I picture ends with someone getting hurt. The Keans won't stop coming after him. And Flint won't stop until he has his revenge.

I keep my vigil, torn between hope and fear, love and practicality. I’m his now, I realize. And he’s mine. If he lives, I have no clue how this will work between us or even if it will. But there’s no walking away now.

28

FLINT

Pain shoots through my body as consciousness creeps back. My eyelids feel like lead weights, and every breath sends daggers through my ribs. The room spins even with my eyes closed.

Lucy. Her soft touch on my face, her worried eyes watching over me. Was she really here? The fog in my brain makes it impossible to separate reality from fever dreams.

I force my eyes open, scanning the dim room for any trace of her. The chair beside my bed sits empty. No lingering warmth, no indent where she might have sat through the night. Pain lances through me that has nothing to do with my injuries.

"Lucy?" My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. Only silence answers.

She was here. I’m sure of it. I remember fragments. Her fingers brushing my hair back, her quiet voice as I rambled about everything I'd kept hidden. Did I really tell her I loved her? The memory feels real, but so did countless other dreams of her during my fevered state.