Chapter 86

Chapter 86
Seamus hadn’t followed her out of the bathroom. He hadn’t stopped her, hadn’t said a damn thing since she had punched him and left him standing there, soaking wet, looking like a man who had seen a ghost.
Fine.
She had done things alone her entire life. She wasn’t about to stop now.
She shoved a pair of jeans into the bag, her chest tight with fury, with something deeper she refused to name. “I’ll raise this child alone,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “I don’t need you, Seamus. I never needed anyone.”
Her voice didn’t shake, but her hands did.
She was about to zip up the bag when a shadow moved behind her. She stiffened as Seamus stepped into the doorway, his presence overwhelming, but different now—less rigid, less closed off. His hair was still damp, his jaw still red from where she had hit him, but his eyes…
They were wrecked.
He didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t tell her she was wrong.
Instead, his voice came out hoarse, broken. "I don’t want to ruin it."
Mika froze.
Seamus’ throat bobbed as he took a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to be anything but what I am. And what I am… isn’t good enough for this.” His voice cracked, and something in Mika’s chest did too. “I don’t want to fuck up this kid’s life the way mine was fucked up. I don’t want to break them the way I’m broken.”
Mika let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She turned slowly, her gaze locking onto his, searching for something—an excuse to keep going, to walk away, to pretend none of this mattered.
But there it was.
Raw. Unfiltered. Real.
She had seen Seamus angry. She had seen him ruthless. She had seen him fight like the devil himself was chasing him. But this… this was the first time she had ever seen him afraid.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and stepped closer. “I’m afraid too,” she admitted quietly.
Seamus’ breath hitched. His hands clenched at his sides like he was fighting some invisible war. But he didn’t move when she reached for him, didn’t flinch when she pressed her hand to his chest, right over his racing heart.
His exhale was unsteady. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Mika’s lips twitched, just barely. “Neither do I.”
A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with something Mika couldn’t name, something bigger than both of them. Then, without warning, Seamus sank to his knees before her.
Mika sucked in a breath as his hands—those hands that had killed, that had protected, that had held her through the darkest nights—slid gently over her hips, his fingers trembling as they brushed against her stomach.
He hesitated, then pressed his lips there, just above her navel, reverent and broken all at once.
Mika’s eyes burned, her fingers threading into his damp hair as he exhaled against her skin, as he let himself break apart in the only way he knew how.
She held him there, anchored him, let herself believe—for just a moment—that maybe, just maybe, they could figure this out together.
Seamus’ hand rested possessively over Mika’s stomach, his grip firm even in sleep. His body was warm behind her, solid, unyielding, as if he could shield both her and the life growing inside her from the world itself.
Mika lay still for a moment, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the quiet rise and fall of his chest against her back. It was strange, this peace, this stillness. For so long, survival had been about movement, about strategy, about never stopping long enough to become a target. But here, in this room, wrapped in Seamus’ arms, the danger felt distant.
She didn’t trust it.
Carefully, she wiggled free from his hold. He grumbled in his sleep, his fingers flexing as if reaching for her, but he didn’t wake. Mika slid out of bed, padding barefoot to the window that overlooked the city.
The skyline stretched before her, glowing against the night.
This was never where she thought she’d end up.
She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers brushing against the subtle curve of her stomach. The past was still written into her bones—the violence, the blood, the loneliness. She had spent her entire life fighting, clawing her way through a world that had never been kind to her. She had never needed anyone. Never relied on anyone.
And then there was Seamus.
She glanced back at him, his form relaxed in sleep, his jaw no longer tight with tension. Even now, she knew his mind never truly rested. He was just like her—trained for war, built for chaos. But he had chosen this. Chosen her. Chosen their child.
The thought sent a strange ache through her chest.
She looked back at the city. "I never thought I'd make it this far," she admitted softly to the glass, to the night, to whatever ghosts still lingered in the shadows. "I never thought I’d have something worth holding onto."
Her fingers pressed against her stomach, protective, possessive in a way she had never imagined she could be.
She exhaled. "But I do."
The future was uncertain. There were still threats lurking beyond the horizon. The Syndicate would never truly let them go. But for the first time in her life, she wasn’t just fighting for herself. She wasn’t just surviving.
She was living.
And she would kill anyone who tried to take this from her.