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Chapter thirty-four

Levana

“I’m really nervous,” I admit quietly. “I don’t wanna screw this up.”

“You can’t screw it up,” Patrick says from where he’s resting his back against Alexander’s bed.

What the fuck do I do?

The floor squeaks underneath me as I rock back and forth a little. My mind’s looping through all the things I could try, all the things that could go wrong.

He’s seriously ill. That much is obvious.

I’ve been trying to play it cool, go along with it. But I’m really struggling. It’s been days of me just sat here in Alexander’s bedroom, trying to figure out what my best move is, but I don’t know my ass from my elbow right now.

Not only did I find out that my boyfriend is hoarding the corpses of his family in his house, I also found out that I’m pregnant, because after watching me for over a year, and becoming such a big part of my life, he swapped out my birth control, and pricked the damn condoms.

I don’t know what to do with any of it. My head’s gone. Completely.

I can’t even shower without leaving the door cracked open anymore, which, honestly, feels fair after learning about Mara. He told me it always scared him when I disappeared into the bathroom, and asked if I’d mind leaving the door open a little. Said it’d help him breathe easier.

But it’s not just the shower. If I get up to pee at 3a.m. or go to grab a glass of water, he’s there—half asleep and hovering, always within arm’s reach. Like if he lets me out of his sight for even a second, something terrible might happen.

I’m scared. I’m freaked the fuck out. And apparently, I’m also still way too hormonal, because my body won’t quit. I crave him constantly. I keep letting him touch me, keep begging for it, every single time he looks at me like I’m his whole world.

I really don’t know what my life’s become and I’m too fucking tired to dissect it.

“Hey,” Patrick says gently. “I know you’ll do this.”

“I will,” I say quickly. “I just don’t know where to start.”

I blow out a breath and glance over at where Alexander’s tucked under his blankets. His face is so pale, skin stretched tight over his delicate bones, but I can still see the shape of Patrick in him. That same jawline, the same messy blonde hair, the tiny nose I can tell would have grown to look just like Patrick’s too.

Would the thing in my belly look like them both? Would it have Patrick’s blonde locks or my auburn? Would it have his smile? Or mine?

No. Stop it.

Patrick’s gaze is locked right onto Alexander.

My heart breaks so fucking hard for him.

He’s lost everything, and some part of his mind is trying to shield him from it, tricking him into believing they’re still here. That his family’s still around, still loving him, just waiting for someone to swoop in and make them whole again.

All he wants is help for his son. That’s it. He’s just being a good dad, doing what he think’s is best in his own way.

And he thinks I’m the one who will be able to give him that help. He told me he’d specifically chosen our funeral home. Said the hospital told him there was a specialist there—someone who knew how to handle children with care.

They meant me.

He was upset I didn’t remember either of them—but I must’ve seen hundreds of people since he passed. Faces blur after a while. They come and go, and I can’t hold onto them all.

Which makes all of this feel just that little bit worse.

But what am I even supposed to do? How am I supposed to fix this? What am I even supposed to be fixing?

How do I help him when he’s literally asking for the impossible?

I don’t want to feed into his delusions, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m completely at a loss.

And no matter which way I turn, it all ends the same—his heart in pieces, shattered at my feet.

“Okay,” I say slowly, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. “So, you’ve been keeping him cool and dry. That’s a great start.”

His face lights up and his shoulders lift a little. “You think so?”

“Yeah. It’s smart. It’s the best thing you could’ve done for now.”

He lets out a relieved, shaky breath. “Oh, good. Good…”

I don’t know if it’s exactly how he planned it. But the way they’d been embalmed, the way he kept the rooms cold, windows cracked just enough to let the air move—it meant they dried out instead of rotting. That’s why there was no smell. No warning. That’s why I hadn’t noticed they were there.

Hesitation sits on my lips before I speak again. “You know that whatever we do, it’s not going to be like embalming, right? Nowhere near as easy?”

His smile fades, like that light’s been cut off completely, and something sharp shifts behind his eyes.

“I know that, Levana,” he snaps. “Jesus. I’m not stupid.”

“Okay, okay,” I say quickly, both palms lifting. “I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just need us to both understand, so we know what we’re working with.”

I hate this. I hate how quickly his mood’s been swinging, how he can go from soft to sharp in a blink, cold one second, loving the next. It’s like walking barefoot across broken glass, not knowing which piece is going to cut next.

I need to figure out the best way to approach this whole situation without pressing the wrong damn button.

“I hate to ask,” I say with caution. “But which of his organs did you donate?”

Patrick’s mouth presses into a thin line, and he drags a hand over his jaw, exhaling hard through his nose. “His kidneys and his heart.”

“Okay… okay,” I nod slowly. “Anything else?”

He shakes his head at first, but it’s too fast. There’s something behind it.

“Patrick?” I press gently. “I can’t figure this out if I don’t know everything.”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “They just kept talking about saving kids. I signed the papers, but I didn’t really pay attention. I didn’t know what else to do. They said they could save so many. They just kept talking and talking and talking.”

“It’s alright, okay?“ I say. ”I can work with heart and kidneys.”

He looks hopeful and desperate all at once. “I mean. Is it fixable at all?”

No. The word rings out through my skull.

No, it’s not. There’s nothing to fix. I’m an embalmer, not a damn necromancer.

But of course I don’t say any of that. Because he’s staring at me like the key to his happiness rests right in the palms of my hands.

“I was thinking,” he starts. “What if maybe you replaced his organs with someone else’s?”

My muscles seize. “Like… organ harvesting?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s a totally reasonable suggestion. “Something like that.”

My mouth drops open, eyes going wide as I try to process the words. “Patrick, that’s really fucking illegal. Not to mention ethically and morally wrong— Jesus Christ, what are you even saying?”

Then again, this whole thing is morally and ethically wrong, and highly fucking illegal.

It’s not like he gives a shit.

No, Levana. It’s not like he realises. It’s just his mind.

His face crumples and his chest hitches like he’s fighting to keep it all in, but he can’t. His shoulders shake, and the tears start falling.

Oh, I fucked up.

“Hey,” I whisper, crawling across the floor to him. “Come here.”

He doesn’t resist when I pull him in, just lets his head drop to my chest, fingers curling weakly against my sides.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, threading my fingers through his hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He sobs into my shirt and all I can do is hold him, anchor him to me, and rock him gently until his breathing evens out and the sobs turn into quiet sniffles.

I shift back a little so I’m sitting cross-legged in front of him.

He lifts his head, eyes red and swollen, face streaked with tears. His glasses are fogged up, the lenses clouded from all the crying.

God, his beautiful face, crumpled and wrecked like that, makes my chest ache.

“Here,” I murmur, reaching for his glasses. He lets me slide them off without a word, gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder.

I pull the hem of my shirt up and carefully wipe the lenses clean, fingers working slowly over the glass.

When I slide them back on, I smooth my fingers across his brow, brushing damp hair from his face. His eyes flick to mine, still glassy and lost, and I let my hand linger there, tracing my thumb gently along the crease between his brows.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “What if we went to the funeral home?”

The crease deepens. “What?”

I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay calm. “I could see which bodies are in the cooler. What do you think? Maybe we can… I don’t know. Maybe there’s something I can use. Something that could help.”

Patrick’s face twists and he shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Patrick…”

“No!” His voice sharpens, hands scrambling for mine. “You can’t leave, Levana. You can’t. You’ll run. I know you will.”

“Patrick, I won’t.” I squeeze his fingers, scooting as close as I can. “I swear to God, I want Alexander to be okay. I want to help him. I want to help you all.”

His face is still pinched, his breathing rough.

“What can I do?” I ask, voice cracking now. “What can I do to prove to you that I won’t run?”

“You could…” He trails off, voice thin and broken as his head drops, chin to chest. “You could… I don’t know…”

I swallow the knot rising in my throat and cup his face gently, lifting it so his eyes meet mine, and press my lips to his. He gives in, melting into the kiss as his hands meet my wrists, holding me firmly in place.

“Okay. Why don’t we let Alexander rest?” I murmur against his mouth as I pull back and brush my thumbs across his cheeks. “He doesn’t need to hear this. We can go downstairs, make some tea, and take a breather. Deal?”

He blows out a shaky breath and nods.

The kettle’s starting to rumble, faint hisses of steam curling out from the spout, but he doesn’t move—just stays in place, head resting on my chest like he’s trying his best to tune into my heartbeat.

Think. Just think.

I need him to trust me.

I could ask to handcuff myself to him. Make it seem like some kind of compromise, something to lull him into a false sense of security. Then, I could scream for Gordon. Or Elliot. Someone. Anyone.

The thought makes my stomach turn. The risk. The uncertainty. What if no one’s around? What if no one hears me? What if—

No.

I need something normal. Something that feels ordinary enough to make him trust me, so I can do this without scaring him into possibly doing something reckless.

And then the worst thought yet hits me. One that makes all the blood in my body crystallise in the blink of an eye.

I wet my lips and force my voice to stay steady. “What if we figured out some names for the baby?”

His head snaps up so fast I flinch. “Really?”

I nod quickly, plastering on a smile. “Yeah, I mean, we’re gonna have to sooner or later, right? So why not now?”

His face lights up, something warm and hopeful breaking through the cloud of exhaustion and panic as his hands move to my stomach. “Oh, Levana. I love you so damn much.”

He kisses me, hard. Like he’s trying to pour everything into me, like this tiny, impossible, never-going-to-happen family, is the only thing holding him together.

I force out a giggle when he pulls back. “I love you too.”

He turns back to the stove and pours the tea. He adds a spoonful of honey to mine, and my heart flutters a little despite everything.

Stop it, Levana.

“Be careful,” he murmurs, sliding the mug into my hands. “It’s hot.”

I sip at it slowly, letting the warmth spread through me, calming my nerves just enough to stop my fingers from shaking.

Right. Play the part.

“So,” I say carefully, cradling the mug in my hands. “What do you think? Girl or boy?”

His expression shifts, a shy smile tugging at his lips, like he’s trying to contain it but failing miserably. “I think girl.”

“Yeah? What makes you say that?”

He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Your symptoms. They’re kind of like Mara’s were with the girls. She wasn’t too sick with Alexander. But with the twins, it was like this. The headaches, the nausea, the exhaustion. Down to a T.”

His eyes meet mine fully, a little sheepishly, like he’s not sure if he’s said too much.

I nod, swallowing hard. “That makes sense. I mean, I did feel like this with Violet…”

The second her name leaves my mouth, my chest tightens and my throat locks up. Just saying her name in this house—in this situation —makes me want to shed my skin and crawl into the cracks between the floorboards.

“Then it’s gotta be a girl,” he says softly. “Our little girl.”

Play the part. Just play the part.

“So come on then, Daddy,” I tease, reaching down and giving his hand a squeeze. “What names do you like?”

That damn beautiful smile leaks into my heart. For a split second, it’s almost normal, like we’re just an average couple, drinking tea together, dreaming up names that’ll slot into our family perfectly.

“Well,” he rubs at his chin, pretending to think. “I always liked Harriet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Harriet?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “It’s strong. Solid. Like a name that means business.”

“Sounds like she’ll be born with a mortgage and a filing cabinet.”

“Hey!” He chuckles. “Harriet’s cute. Hattie for short?”

I soften a little. “Okay… Hattie’s nice.”

“What about you?”

I pretend to think too, tapping my fingers on the counter. “I always kinda likedDelilah.”

“Delilah…” He rolls it over in his mouth, like he’s testing it out. “I like that. Lila for short?”

“Exactly,” I say with a smile.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, Patrick’s fingers tracing slow circles over my belly.

“Okay,” he says suddenly. “But what if it’s a boy?”

“I thought you were convinced it’s a girl?”

“I am,” he says smugly. “But, you know… just in case.”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I always liked Jonah. Or maybe Ezra.”

“Jonah’s nice,” he says. “I knew an Ezra once though. Couldn’t stand the guy.”

“Okay, no Ezra then.”

“What about Lawrence?” He suggests. “Or Milo?”

“Milo’s cute,” I say, surprising myself. “I really like that.”

“Milo Patrick. What do you think?”

“Milo Patrick,” I repeat. “Yeah… yeah, I like that.”

He’s still smiling when he says, “So middle names for girls? Hattie Levana? Or Delilah Levana?”

I nearly choke on my tea. “Oh God, no,” I laugh, shaking my head. “Mouthfuls. No thank you.”

His smile falters for a second, but then his face lights up again. “What if we shorten it down, then? Lena? No… Levie? That doesn’t work either… Vanna?”

I scrunch my nose. “Sounds like a car brand. We’ll stick with my name for now. Hattie Levana or Delilah Levana. Jesus.”