Irina’s POV

I didn’t have to ask who she meant.

"I don’t know," I said.

"That’s okay," Sofia said. "You don’t have to know yet."

I stared at the ceiling. At the shadows up there, the way the moonlight from the window cut across the stone in sharp lines.

"I don’t think I know what love is supposed to feel like," I said. Quiet. "Not the—the mate bond kind. The real kind. I spent so long with Maxim, and that was—that wasn’t love. That was ownership. Control. And now Nicolas—" I stopped. "He’s not like that. He’s not. But I don’t know if what I feel is love or just—relief. Or gratitude. Or the bond doing what it’s supposed to do and making me think I feel something I don’t actually feel."

Sofia was quiet.

"When he fought Maxim," I said. "In the hall. When Maxim went for him—I felt it. Here." I pressed my hand to my chest. "It hurt. Physically hurt. Like someone had reached in and squeezed. And I moved before I thought about it. I just—moved. Put myself between them." I swallowed. "And I don’t know if that’s love or if that’s just—instinct. The bond. Biology."

"Does it matter?" Sofia said softly.

I turned my head. Looked at her in the dark.

"What do you mean?"

"Does it matter," she said again, "whether it’s the bond or something else? If it feels real to you, if it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do—does the reason change what it is?"

I didn’t have an answer for that.

She shifted. Turned onto her side so she was facing me. Her voice was gentler now. Careful.

"I think," she said, "that you’ve been hurt for so long that you don’t trust good things when they happen. I think you’re looking for reasons why this isn’t real, why it won’t last, why you don’t deserve it—because if you find those reasons first, it won’t hurt as much when it ends." She paused. "But Irina, what if it doesn’t end? What if this is just—what if this is just your life now? What if you get to have this?"

My eyes burned.

"I’m scared," I said. The words came out raw. "I’m so scared, Sofia. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be—whatever I’m supposed to be for him. I don’t know how to be a mother. I don’t even know if I should try. What if I’m like—what if I turn into—"

"You won’t," Sofia said. Firm. Absolute. "You won’t be like them. You couldn’t be like them if you tried."

"You don’t know that."

"I do." She reached out. Found my hand in the dark. Squeezed it. "Because you’re already worried about it. Because you’re already thinking about what kind of person you want to be. That’s—that’s the difference. That’s everything."

I held her hand.

We lay there in the dark and I let myself breathe.

"I’ve never had a family," I said eventually. Quiet. "Not really. Not one that—that wanted me. And I think—I think maybe that’s what this is. Not love. Not yet. Just—needing. Needing someone to want me back. Needing to not be alone." I looked at the ceiling again. "Is that pathetic?"

"No," Sofia said. "It’s human."

I closed my eyes.

"I think I want to keep it," I said. "The baby. I think—even if everything else is a mess, even if I don’t know what I’m doing—I want to try. Because maybe this is the only chance I get. Maybe the pack doctor was right and this is—this is the one time my body does this. And if I don’t—" My voice cracked. "If I don’t keep it, I might never have another chance."

"Then keep it," Sofia said simply. "Keep it and figure out the rest as you go."

"What if I’m terrible at it?"

"Then you’ll be terrible at it and you’ll learn and you’ll get better." She squeezed my hand again. "That’s what people do, Irina. They try. They fail. They try again. It’s allowed."

Something in my chest loosened.

I brought my free hand to my stomach. Pressed it flat against the fabric of the hospital gown. There was nothing to feel yet—no bump, no movement, nothing to prove this was real except Nadia’s words and the exhaustion in my bones and the nausea that came and went without warning.

But it was there.

Someone was there.

*My child,* I thought. Testing the words out. Seeing if they fit.

They did.

They fit better than I’d expected.

"Okay," I said. Quiet. To Sofia. To myself. To the dark. "Okay. I’m keeping it."

Sofia smiled. I couldn’t see it but I could hear it in her voice.

"Good," she said. "Then we’ll figure out the rest together."

"We?"

"Of course we." She said it like it was obvious. "You think I’m going to miss watching you navigate this? I’m invested now. I’m in it for the long haul."

Something warm spread through my chest.

"Thank you," I said.

"Don’t thank me yet," Sofia said. "Wait until I’m the one keeping you awake at three in the morning because the baby won’t stop crying and you’re going to hate everyone."

I almost laughed.

We lay there in the dark. Her hand in mine. My other hand on my stomach. The moonlight cutting across the ceiling in sharp, clean lines.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time in a long time, the fear was still there—but it wasn’t the only thing.

There was something else now. Something small and fragile and new.

Hope.

Maybe.

I let myself hold it.

Just for tonight.

In the dark, my hand still pressed to my stomach, I made the decision.

I was keeping this child.

Whatever came next—whatever I had to face, whatever I had to become—I would face it.

For them.

For us.

I would try.