Page 24 of Unleashed (Dark Sovereign #11)

EVERLY

Most women daydream about sushi rolls or a bloody steak once the pregnancy ban list kicks in.

Me? I want coffee. And not just any coffee.

A real shot of espresso—freshly pulled, crema thick as caramel, roasted beans ground seconds before they hit the machine.

I crave that sharp bitterness, the kick in the back of the throat, the kind of cup that smells like heaven and tastes like decadence.

And here I am, the pregnant masochist, working in a coffee shop—one that, for once, doesn’t trace back to the Del Rossas. At least, not that I know of. Anthony’s been sliding money into my account like he’s still entitled to me. And then there are the other deposits—anonymous, clean, deliberate.

I refuse to touch a cent. But when Molly checked her balance last week and found a neat, round number sitting there, too? I didn’t need proof. I know exactly whose hand it came from. My husband’s.

I balance a tray with four mugs, smile until my cheeks hurt, thank customers whose names I’ll never know. Hours blur into the same motions—wipe the counter, sweep the crumbs, refill sugar jars.

It’s been weeks since I pressed his name on my phone, weeks since the call that went unanswered.

Weeks of pretending I’m moving forward, of working shifts at a coffee shop that isn’t his, of telling myself that if I just keep busy, maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m suffocating.

But no matter how many lattes I pour or tables I clear, I’m stuck.

Stuck in the place where I’m Isaia’s wife.

Stuck in love with a man who branded himself into my bones.

Stuck in the moments on that island where it was only us, no lies, no shadows—just fire and freedom.

The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up from where I’m wiping down the counter. A man in his mid-thirties ambles in, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbow like the day’s wrung him out.

“Am I too late?” he asks, glancing at the chalkboard menu like it might grant him mercy.

I glance at the clock—five minutes to close. “Depends,” I say, sliding the rag over the counter one last time. “Are you a desperate caffeine addict, or just someone who doesn’t want to go home yet?”

That earns a laugh out of him, rough and tired. “Both, actually. But I’ll settle for whatever keeps me upright long enough to make it through my inbox.”

I nod, already moving toward the machine. “One latte coming right up.”

While it hisses and steams, he leans against the counter. “You new here? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“Couple weeks,” I say, keeping my eyes on the cup, on the foam rising. “Just helping out.”

“Glad you are.” He smiles, faint but genuine. “Most baristas look like they’re plotting my death when I walk in this late. You actually look like you care.”

I force a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “That’s because I haven’t been here long enough to start plotting.”

He chuckles, takes the latte, and slips a tip into the jar. “See you around, newbie.”

The bell chimes again, leaving the shop wrapped in that end-of-the-day silence. I flip the last chair onto the table, drag the rag across a stubborn ring of syrup, and lean back with a sigh. My body aches, the kind of tired that lingers in the bones, but it’s a good tired—earned.

I reach for the lights, keys jingling in my hand, when it happens.

A flutter.

So faint I almost doubt it. A whisper against the inside of me, like the brush of a feather or the pop of a bubble. My breath catches, the room blurring at the edges as stillness settles heavily in my chest.

And then—again. Not gas. Not nerves. Not anything I can explain away.

My hand flies to my stomach, pressing over the gentle swell I’ve watched grow in the mirror. My eyes sting, and before I can stop them, tears spill over. It’s real.

“My baby.” I choke out a laugh, my heart beating so fast, so full.

It’s an emotion I’ve never felt before—never experienced before.

I knew there was a new life inside of me.

I saw the heartbeat. Heard it. But to feel it?

God, it brings everything into sharp and clear focus.

It’s no longer just a sonogram image or a doctor’s confirmation.

This…this is life stirring beneath my hand.

A tiny soul reaching out in the only way it can.

I turn and lean against the locked door, the world in front of me fading into the background.

My palms press harder against the swell, desperate to catch every ripple, every whisper of movement.

It’s fragile, fleeting, but it’s there. A connection that no one else could possibly feel, a secret language between just the two of us.

“My baby,” I whisper again, softer this time, reverent.

The words feel holy on my tongue, like a prayer.

The promise of a heartbeat that once flickered on a grainy screen now echoes in my body, announcing itself with this delicate wave.

For the first time, it’s not just something happening to me.

It’s something happening with me. To us. Together.

There’s so much joy in this one condensed, tiny moment, it overflows, and my first reaction is to share it with someone. To share it with…him. It’s a cruel thought. It brings down the reality so hard, it almost knocks me off my feet.

I’m alone. Just like the appointment I had at twelve weeks. Just like the morning when I woke up and realized my tummy’s grown, that my pants no longer fit. Just like I’ll be going to the next sonogram. Alone. Without him.

Isaia’s face flashes in my mind, unbidden—his dark eyes locking on mine, the rough scrape of his voice when he said I was his. My chest tightens. He should be here. He should be the first to know, the first to touch my stomach and feel what I just felt.

My laugh comes out shaky, torn between wonder and grief. Because even in this moment of purest joy, my first instinct is still him. My heart still runs to him like it doesn’t know how to do anything else.

I press both palms to my belly, closing my eyes against the rush of ache and love that feels too big for my ribs. “Your daddy would lose his mind right now,” I whisper to the life inside me. The life I need to protect. The life I need to move on for.

On my way home to Molly’s apartment, I steer off the usual path and down the quiet stretch that winds through a park, my thoughts filled with images of tiny fingers and toes. Dreams of nursery colors and first steps.

It isn’t until a boy shouts for me to duck from an oncoming soccer ball that I realize where I am. The park.

The. Park. And I suck in a breath, a slow ache spreading as memories flow back. It wasn’t intentional. The path I took, every turn I made, it wasn’t planned…But I ended up here anyway. The park where our story began.

A breeze stirs, the faint chill making me shiver as I think of that night.

Luna had torn free, her leash slipping from my grasp, and barreled straight toward him—straight into the man I’d eventually lose my heart to.

She tangled us together in a moment that felt scripted, like it had been written long before we ever arrived.

This place, that night… it changed everything.

Families drift past with strollers and picnic baskets, their laughter lilting in the air. My steps slow, heavy with the weight of memory. This park is haunted with him. Every bench, every tree, every patch of gravel feels like it remembers. Like it’s waiting.

And maybe that’s why my chest tightens the way it does.

Maybe that’s why the air shifts, brushing against me like a touch I know too well.

I swallow hard, pulse stuttering as a prickle of awareness crawls over my skin.

It’s the same feeling that stalks me everywhere—walking home from work, standing in line at the store, closing my curtains at night.

Like he’s here. Watching. Close enough to touch.

I tell myself it’s in my head. Wishful thinking. But hope has teeth, and it sinks in deep. Maybe today’s the day he’ll come for me. Maybe today he’ll reach out like he did in the elevator.

Maybe not.

With a deep inhale, I bury my hands deeper in my coat pockets and turn to head home.

That’s when I hear it, a bark, a sound I’d recognize anywhere.

“Luna,” I whisper as my body goes rigid.

“Luna?” The world tilts as I whip around.

For a split second, the park blurs—trees, benches, strangers—and then she’s there.

A golden streak tearing across the grass, ears flapping, eyes bright.

“Oh, my God, Luna.” A sob rips out of me before I can stop it.

I drop to my knees in the dirt, arms wide, and she barrels straight into me with all her weight.

I clutch her tight, burying my face in her fur, inhaling the familiar warmth, the comfort that smells like home.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I press frantic kisses to her head.

“My Luna-bug,” I cry, shaking and laughing all at once.

“Oh, Luna, my sweet girl. I missed you so much.”

Her tail wags furiously, her tongue lapping at my chin, her whines echoing my own desperation.

She wriggles, circles me, pushes her head into my chest as if she’s just as starved for this as I am.

When I finally lift my head, breath hitching, my gaze darts wildly around the park.

Because if Luna’s here…then so is he. He has to be.

I wipe at my wet cheeks, scanning the benches, the path that snakes toward the fountain, the clusters of people drifting home as the sun bleeds out behind the skyline. My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my fingertips, in the dirt pressed into my knees.

“Isaia?” The whisper slips out before I can stop it, barely louder than the rustle of the branches above me.

Nothing.

The park is calm, almost too calm, the kind of stillness that sharpens every sound—the creak of the swings, the distant thud of a basketball, Luna’s soft whines as she noses my stomach like she knows something sacred is inside.

I clutch her collar, my eyes darting everywhere, desperate for a shadow, a silhouette, anything that proves what my heart already knows. That he’s here. Watching me. Watching us.

But the trees only sway. The benches only sit empty. The sky only fades darker.

And yet…that prickling awareness doesn’t leave. It crawls over the back of my neck, down my spine, like an invisible tether pulled taut between us.

He’s here. I know it. Even if I can’t see him. Even if he won’t let me. I can feel it. Feel him.

“I miss you,” I murmur softly, barely a breath, meant for no one but him. And though nothing moves, though no shadow steps from the trees, my chest fills with a painful certainty. He heard me.

Somewhere close, Isaia heard me.

I’m finally back at Molly’s ground-floor apartment, Luna on her leash and a bag of dog food in my arm. The entire way here I had that familiar prickle, that awareness I’ve convinced myself is him. What I don’t understand is why he’s not here with me, next to me, holding my hand.

Him following me, bringing Luna back, the elevator, the money—it all paints the picture of a man who still loves me. Still wants me. But why isn’t he here?

I know, even if we get back together today, our relationship is far from mended. The lies, the silence, they’re walls we’d have to break through. But we owe it to our child to at least try.

Luna whines beside me, so I unclip the leash and she darts into the apartment. I set the dog food and my tote on the counter, then pull out my phone to put it on charge. The weight of it in my palm makes me pause.

Should I?

No. No, I shouldn’t. I’ve done fine not calling.

I have a job, a routine, a friend who’d go to war for me.

I pay my own way, even when money shows up in my account like a bandage I didn’t ask for.

Pride’s funny like that—it’s loud until you’re walking home with a leash in one hand and a heartbeat under the other.

But suddenly, today feels like a page I don’t want to lose. And if he won’t be in the moment, then I can at least put the moment in his ear. A record. A breadcrumb trail. Proof that we existed, even apart.

My fingers hover over his name until the screen dims, then I tap it awake again. If it hurts, I’ll hang up. If it hurts, I’ll survive. I’ve already survived worse.

I press call.

I’m holding my breath as the rings march on, measured and indifferent. One. Two. Three. I’m already bracing for the empty click of voicemail when it lands, and the beep opens like a small, clean door.

For a heartbeat I’m silent before finally finding my voice. “Luna found me,” I say softly. “In the park. You brought her to me, didn’t you?” I swallow. Luna bumps my knee with her nose like she’s agreeing. “She ran straight to me, Isaia. Like she knew I needed her. Like she knew I was…alone.”

A tear slips hot down my cheek as I lean back against the counter. “I know you were there. Even before I heard her bark, I felt you.” My laugh is shaky, bittersweet. “It sounds crazy, I know.”

My free hand presses to my stomach, right where the flutter lived.

“I felt the baby move today. For the first time. It was small—just a little tap—but it was real, and it…” A breath, wet at the edges.

“It was incredible. You should’ve been there.

You should’ve felt it, too.” I glance at my palm splayed over the swell.

“Your hand should be right here where mine is now.”

The tears come hot, but I keep going. “If you won’t let me see you, then I’ll tell you like this. Every little thing. Every milestone. Every moment. This baby is yours, too, and I won’t let you miss it.”

Luna huffs, impatient, and I smile through the sting in my eyes. “I miss you,” I whisper. “We miss you.”

The message ends itself, the line cutting quiet. I let the phone fall to the counter and grab a kitchen towel to blot my cheeks. It aches. It hurts. Maybe it always will.

I don’t know if he’ll get the message, or if he’ll even listen. But just talking—just imagining that he’s listening—is a thread. Thin and trembling, but strong enough to keep me tethered. To him. To us. To the part of me that still believes we’re not finished.