Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I breathe a sigh of relief even as I blink. That word again.
Husband.
It should feel wrong. But it doesn’t.
Instead, I lift one brow, shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, and smile. “Oh. Right,” I say smoothly, already pivoting. “It’s his night.”
Of course he came. Responsible, on top of things, competent as fuck. And I love him. I love him so damn much. I see him with Luka, and I just melt into a puddle, thinking this man will be the father of my baby. I couldn’t ask for any better.
I drive home without music. The silence isn’t heavy—just full.
Sometimes, I still expect ghosts in the corner. But this house—our house—is clean. Safe. No bloodstains on the floor. No memory of the night Mariah died. No shadows that reek of old grief.
When I open the front door, the smell of something warm and garlicky curls around me. The nausea has passed, and now I’m ravenous. Eating for two, after all.
Luka gives me a sleepy hug with a yawn before he disappears down the hall—he needs some downtime before early bed. My heart pinches.
But what stops me is the rest of it.
The table.
Lit candles. Not the scented kind either—the real, tall ones, dripping wax into elegant little dishes. The good plates. Actual napkins. Cloth ones, like you’d find in a restaurant.
The house is pristine. The cleaning crew must’ve come today. Everything is gleaming: floors buffed, windows smudge-free, the scent of citrus cleaner in the air. Vadka’s motorcycle jacket is on the hook. His boots are lined up neatly at the door.
I step further in and freeze.
Because he is in the kitchen.
Wearing a dark long-sleeve tee. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair wet from a recent shower, his jaw freshly shaved. He turns toward me with that heavy-lidded look of quiet approval that somehow still manages to make me feel bare.
There are plates on the table. One is covered in grilled salmon and wild rice pilaf, the other piled with things I vaguely recognize from the pregnancy app I downloaded two weeks ago and deleted three days later.
He catches me looking.
“I googled,” he says simply, nodding at the food.
My mouth twitches. “I figured.”
I drop my bag by the bench, shrug out of my jacket, and exhale. For once, I don’t have to be anywhere. Don’t have to watch my back. Don’t have to handle everything alone.
He hands me a water glass. “Hydration’s important.”
I squint at him. “Are you… nesting?”
“No. I’m protecting my baby.” He grins.
My brows lift, and I don’t ask him which of us he means. “Your baby?”
He’s already pulling out my chair. “Behave yourself, you little brat.”
I laugh, but it’s softer now. My fingers brush the side of the water glass. There’s something in my chest—warm, expanding.
And when he sits beside me instead of across from me, when his thigh presses against mine like it’s meant to, that warmth spreads like fire licking up dry wood.
We eat in silence for a while, save for the occasional clink of silverware. Outside, the streetlights hum to life. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks.
And then—quietly, reverently—he reaches across and rests his hand on my belly.
I freeze. My throat is tight.
His palm is broad, warm, grounding. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. Just watches his own hand cup over my rounded belly.
I let out a slow sigh. “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this. I’m not sure I can be a good mother…”
His eyes lift to mine. “I’m sure about you. And you’re not alone.”
That’s all he says.
It’s all I need.
Because this isn’t the man who once drank himself to sleep on the couch. This isn’t the enforcer who puts bullets through skulls with no hesitation. This isn’t even the grieving widower who used to flinch at the sight of me.
This is Vadka.
The man who sets the table and lights candles and researches superfoods while the city sleeps.
The man who rests his hand on my belly with reverence.
And somehow, impossibly, I believe him.
Later that night, when the dishes are done and Luka is fully asleep, I stand in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth. Vadka comes up behind me, arms snaking around my waist, one hand flattening over my stomach again.
I lean back into him.
He meets my eyes in the mirror.
Together, we look like something rebuilt. Something strong.
Something unbroken.
VADKA
The box said Some Assembly Required.
It lied.
The crib is spread out across the nursery floor—planks of pale wood, indecipherable screws, and vague instruction diagrams that look like ancient hieroglyphic writing. There’s a manual on the floor, bent and abandoned after page four because it was clearly written by someone who’s never touched a wrench in their life.
I kneel in front of the chaos, my brows drawn, one hand steadying a half-assembled side rail while the other tightens a bolt with clinical precision.