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I consider the question while the bread toasts.

A week ago, I was just another brother, watching her from afar, respecting boundaries I never wanted.

Now I'm in her kitchen at midnight, making her toast, planning a future that includes raising another man's baby as my own.

"Yeah," I say finally. "Everything's different. But different doesn't mean bad."

"Even when the baby's not?—"

"The baby'smine," I cut her off. "We've been over this. Biology doesn't matter. Choice does."

She's quiet while I butter the toast, cut it into small triangles the way she likes.

I've learned her preferences this week.

How she takes her coffee: one sugar, splash of milk.

She prefers her eggs over easy.

How she can't sleep without checking the locks twice.

"What if people figure it out?" she asks as I set the plate in front of her. "What if Dylan?—"

"Dylan's going to have bigger problems soon," I say, thinking of those photos. Whatever he's planning, it's not good. But I'll handle it. "Just eat."

She manages to eat half the toast before pushing the plate away. "I'm sorry. I know I need to eat more."

"You're doing fine," I assure her. "First trimester's rough. It'll get better."

"How do you know so much about pregnancy?"

"Been reading." At her surprised look, I shrug. "What? I'm gonna be a father. Need to know this shit."

That makes her tear up, which seems to be what happens a lot lately. "You don't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I do." I pull her against me, let her cry into my chest. "We're in this together, remember? All three of us."

"I don't deserve this," she whispers. "Don't deserve you being so good to me."

"Bullshit." I tilt her chin up. "You deserve everything good. Just been dealing with bad for so long you forgot what good looks like."

"Maybe."

"Definitely. Now come on, it’s bedtime. You're exhausted, and you’re working tomorrow, right?"

Everly nods and leads us to the bedroom.

I curl around her in the bed that's become ours and within minutes she's asleep, but I lie awake thinking about too much shit.

About Dylan at Patriot’s compound. About those photos. About what he could want with evidence of tonight's violence.

About those initials in the Patriot's files—DM.

There are too many coincidences piling up.

Tomorrow, Tor will start digging.

Tomorrow, we'll start unraveling whatever game Dylan's playing.